


Legacy of Azure Light

by tangymustard (zestymayonaisse)



Series: Valkyria Chronicles: Crows of Schwartzgrad [3]
Category: Senjou no Valkyria | Valkyria Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Tags may be added as needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zestymayonaisse/pseuds/tangymustard
Summary: The Civil War in the Nord Republic is kicking off in full swing, as the occupied nation struggles between independence and loyalty to the Empire. Kriegstotcher, working with the intent of aiding the Nordic Loyalists, also struggles to keep itself together in the midst of battle. The Vinnish Secret Service engages in the chaos with their own plans in mind. Meanwhile, in the Capital, secret delegation of representatives of the United States disembarks to meet quietly with the Empress while the Commissariat assists with their talks.
Relationships: Nikola Graf & Chiara Rocino
Series: Valkyria Chronicles: Crows of Schwartzgrad [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365964
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're back again! Thanks everyone for the positive response so far with this story. Part 3 in general was quite difficult to work with, and at this point has been completely rewritten from scratch (which has a lot to do with the delays). The upload schedule for this part is going to be a bit sporadic; there'll be one more chapter posted next month, and then we'll be taking a short break until January.  
> This part is going to be pretty combat-heavy, lots of fighting specifically on Nikola and Chiara's end. I don't really have the luxury of plot-relevant characters dying just to revive a cutscene later, so combat is following Dynasty Warrior rules (i.e. drawn-out fights between named characters while everyone else is fodder).

\--October 1924--

The only sound that could be heard during the Lord Commissar’s descent into the basement was the rhythmic tapping of the steel tip at the end of his long black cane as it struck the stone steps. The air was damp, heavy with a musty smell, which made it difficult to breathe. It only served to exacerbate Montgomery’s labored efforts, caused by his aching leg that weighed him down. His fresh injury constantly reminded him that he could never again personify the image of an idealized Imperial Man, which he’d worked hard to cultivate before the failed attempt on his life.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he found himself catching his breath in a dimly lit square room, flanked by two branching paths on the left and right. He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead as he squinted into the darkness. He typically avoided bearing witness to Volker’s work in person, but it was rather urgent circumstances that drew him down into the torturer’s basement. Montgomery finally settled on the right path, shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket and limping down to a wall of heavy iron cell doors.

The Lord Commissar paused and looked around, perplexed, before jolting as Volker materialized seemingly from nowhere. The head torturer smiled unsettlingly. “Lord Commissar York, thank you for coming.”

  
  
Montgomery pushed up his spectacles, studying the man who, at the time, still possessed the youthful enthusiasm of a madman freed from restrictions. “What have you got for me?”

  
  
Volker’s plastic smile faded and he stepped out of the darkness. “The prisoner has requested to speak to you, personally.” He clasped his hands together. “As ordered, I have not harmed a single hair on his head. But I must ask, what is so significant about this one? He is just a Darcsen.”

“Your restraint is appreciated, Commissar,” Montgomery said, patting his hand lightly on the other man’s shoulder, before awkwardly retracting it. “As for his significance, Grigori is no mere Darcsen. He is a man of principle. One who has come to the conclusion that an unjust world must be remade, and those who cling to vestiges of the past will be swept away. For that reason alone, I respect him more than all of my adversaries.”

  
  
Volker seemed unsure of what the Lord Commissar meant, but simply nodded. He gestured, and the two men walked to the final cell at the end of the hallway. With a jingle, Volker removed a key ring thick with numerous different keys. He carefully picked out the one he wanted and opened the door.

Montgomery confidently moved into the cell, looking down upon an aged Darcsen man. His balding head shone under the single lamp that dangled from the ceiling. Sunken, sleep deprived eyes bore into him before the man’s face tensed with realization. In a gruff, guttural voice, the man spoke, “So, you… you are _har fun voron_.”

Montgomery stared down at him curiously, his pose almost bird-like, both hands rested on the head of his cane and his black coat draped over his frame. “How peculiar. I thought you of all people, Grigori, wouldn’t fall into such superstition.” He gestured grandly with one arm, with the image of a crow stretching his wing. “See? I am merely a man. Not a demon conceived to torment your people.”

Grigori reached up to touch the traditional tan scarf around his neck, a faint smirk on his face as he watched the Lord Commissar limp over to the table. “How theatrical. It seems you have embraced the title,” the Darcsen man said as Montgomery slid into the steel chair. He continued, “And what else besides a demon should I consider you, Lord Commissar? For all this time, never once have I heard your name. Everywhere I walked, though… I have felt your presence. Your crows lurk everywhere, in every shadow and valley across this whole Empire. Their eyes acting as your own.”

Montgomery couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at the suggestion. He adjusted his leg to be more comfortable and said, “Ah, well…What can I say? I like to be thorough.” He paused, then calmly added, “Oh, please, forgive me. Where are my manners? I am Lord Commissar Montgomery York. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Comrade Marshal Grigori.”

Grigori cocked his head to one side, considering his captor’s name and distinct cadence. “Not many men from the Isles in this part of the world. You are a rather long way from home, Montgomery.”

  
  
“The Imperial Alliance is my only home,” Montgomery replied smoothly, though no amount of effort could correct his accent. “As she is my mother who embraced me lovingly, as if I were one of her natural born sons, and has asked for nothing in return but my devotion.”

“The hollow words of a foolish man,” Grigori said with vitriol, knowing full well he was at the end of his rope. He leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes still fixated on Montgomery. “The aristocracy of this miserable alliance use men like you up and throw them away. Your devotion means nothing to a ruling class that pays for its gains in the lives of its servants.”

  
  
Montgomery removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Then it is a good thing I do not serve those vampires who cannibalize their mother. My office is loyal to our Empire alone, and it is our sworn duty to protect her from harm.”

  
  
Grigori’s bushy eyebrows raised in unison as he considered what the strange Lord Commissar was saying. He ran a hand through his oily beard. “Yet your office carries out the will of those very men.”

“Hm. Sometimes paths can coincide...” Montgomery replied with a smile as he considered the man in front of him. “But in this case, never intertwine. Their time will come soon enough.”

  
  
Perplexed by Montgomery’s cryptic speech, Grigori’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you want from me, Lord of Crows? I will not utter a single word about my comrades.”

  
  
“I care not where the rest of your cadre is. I am confident my men will find them soon enough,” Montgomery waved his hand, returning to his respectful tone, as if addressing a superior. “Could I offer you something to drink? A last meal of sorts? I am sure you know already how this ends, but truthfully… I have wished to speak to you for some time now, Grigori.”

“A last meal?” Girgori’s brow furrowed deeply, considering the question with utmost importance. Montgomery massaged his leg as the prolonged silence began to grate his nerves. Finally Grigori responded, “I would like some plov. Please, don’t skimp on the paprika.”

  
  
Montgomery nodded. He’d expected the answer to be some type of traditional Darcsen dish. He stood up, asking, “And to drink?”

  
  
“Vodka. The whole bottle,” Grigori said without hesitation, watching as the the Lord Commissar walked to the door and leaned out, telling Volker the order. The torturer seemed confused by the request, especially when Montgomery asked for a cup of black tea and three slices of toast with jam for himself. He didn’t argue though, as he was already used to his boss’s eccentric ways. Soon the quiet tapping of his shoes could be heard trailing down the hall.

Montgomery returned to the table. As he sat down, he said, “I found that your manifesto outlined a very compelling doctrine. I now know why so many of your people have chosen to answer your call to arms.”

Grigori leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. “You can read our native tongue?” The revolutionary, in many of his writings, had placed the utmost importance on the preservation of what remained of Darcsen culture, including a revival of their ancient language.

  
  
“Not a word, but fortunately in our archives there were a few texts my men were able to use to translate,” Montgomery said with malice lurking behind his smile, fully aware how many cultural works were locked away in the archives of the Commissariat. “It really is such a shame that your works will never reach a wider audience.”

“Occupiers always speak with such arrogance. You are quick to forget that my ancestors walked this continent long before yours. Even now, you have failed to burn my people. Your actions only serve to harden our resolve,” the older man bit back as he leaned back in his chair and massaged the sores on his wrists from the shackles that had been only recently removed.

“Does it now? Now you are the one starting to sound like a fool,” Montgomery said, moving his head to one side and looking up at the stone ceiling. “Think about it—hundreds of years of mistreatment, all across Europe. Yet, as far as I know, you are the first Darcsen to actually motivate his followers to take up arms.” He smiled wryly, eyes trailing back to Grigori. “Hard to believe such a passive, ineffectual people nearly destroyed the world. I guess appearances can be deceiving.”

“If you wish to provoke me, I suggest you try harder,” Grigori drawled, unimpressed. His eyes, though, betrayed his true feelings, his eyes piercing as he stared at the demon in front of him. “I can tell you know the truth, just as you create the lies that uphold this unjust system.”

  
  
“Honestly, you give me far too much credit. People believe what they want to,” Montgomery said with a shrug, pushing up his glasses in a quick motion. “Impressive, really, the human propensity toward genocide. Even those who predated us, the Valkyur, held well to the belief that killing all those who opposed them to the last man, woman, and child was an easier solution than coexistence.”

“But what do you believe, Lord of Crows? I am curious as to why the man responsible for upholding the same system of extermination speaks mournfully of the violent nature of humanity,” Grigori asked, once again reaching up and touching his scarf.

“Hmm… Allow me to answer with a question.” Montgomery paused. looking past the revolutionary, his eyes distant. “Do you consider yourself a disciple of history, Comrade-Marshal?”

A knock interrupted him before he could elaborate, causing Montgomery to pause the conversation. Limping over to the door, he pushed it open, revealing Commissar Friedhold. The somber man was precariously balancing a single silver tray in his arms. With a nod, he said, “Lord Commissar. As requested.”

Montgomery gestured for the man to enter.Soon enough a plate was set in front of Grigori, who looked down at the steam rice pilaf with curiosity. He picked up a fork and poked at it. As he did, Friedhold scooted over a second plate of toast and jam to Montgomery’s side of the table, causing the Lord Commissar to smile. “Very good, Friedhold. Not too difficult of a request, I hope?”

  
  
“I never expected to be playing waiter in this job,” Friedhold said with a quick wit as he stepped back out of the room and returned with the drinks. He placed the vodka and tea on the table. “Will that be all?”

  
  
“Yes. Tell Volker I appreciate his patience as well,” Montgomery said with an almost fatherly air as he held up a hand.

“Then I will take my leave,” Friedhold said, saluting and exiting the cell once more.

  
  
Montgomery returned to his seat, picking a piece of lightly burnt toast smeared with red jelly. He took a bite with a loud crunch, watching the man across from him closely. The other man took a bite out of the pilaf, chewing it methodically. “Is it satisfactory?” York asked.

  
  
Grigori nodded. “It is. I am impressed, occupier. Replicating a traditional dish such as this requires at least a small degree of finesse.”

The Lord Commissar offered a smile and allowed the prisoner some time with his meal. Grigori shoveled the rice into his mouth as Montgomery continued to eat his toast quietly. They sat in silence before Montgomery dragged them back to the original topic. “So, are you?”

  
  
Grigori glanced up from the plate and furrowed his brow. The Lord Commissar took the silence to clarify, “A disciple of history?”

“One must study history to understand the present,” Grigori answered predictably, leaning back in the chair.

  
  
“Yes, yes, very good,” Montgomery said almost dismissively, still holding on to a piece of toast. “But tell me, as a Darcsen—when you look at the past, what is it you see?”

  
  
“Fabrications. Lies of an imperialist power to uphold an unfair order to justify its existence,” Grigori answered, tightening his grip on the fork on his hand before taking a deep breath.

  
  
“Oh come now, Grigori. That is an awfully narrow view of Europe’s history,” Montgomery said, disappointed that the man before him had not even considered the same conclusions as his own. “What about the history of the rest of the continent? Forget about the Empire for a moment, if you will.”

  
  
Grigori stroked his beard, closing his eyes in thought. “Imperialism wears many faces. I spoke not of the Empire, but of the Yggdists and their lies. Like a plague they spread across Europe, relying on lies to spread fear in order to gain control—over people, even over history.” He opened his eyes, focusing on the Lord of Crows. “Is that answer satisfactory, York?”

  
  
Montgomery put the piece of toast down and clapped his hands together sarcastically. “Indeed, it is. It was not just our Empire that treated your people with such disdain. In Edinburgh, Darcsen women were drowned en masse for witchcraft. In Valois, there were the hangings which persisted for nearly one hundred years. And of course, the Gallians—vilest of them all, regularly burned babies in the name of purification. Tossed them right onto the pyre, from what I understand.”

“Sounds a bit too much like sympathy, coming from you…” Grigori said perplexed, squinting at the man across the table, unsure how to interpreted his words.

“Not quite,” Montgomery said cryptically, reaching for his tea. He peered into the ceramic cup at the red liquid inside. “The Darcsen and the Valkyur are two sides of the same historical coin,” He paused to take an obnoxiously loud sip. “After all, can we not say that the old peoples are to blame for the state of Europe? No matter how many millions die in pointless conflicts, the legacy of an old world that has long crumbled into ruins still sees itself fit to dictate the future.”

  
  
“Hmph,” Grigori grunted, unwilling to admit he was not following the Lord Commissar’s train of thought. He returned his attention to his food, scarfing down the meal.

Montgomery watched him and continued his cryptic speech. “You see, I am a true disciple of history. You know what I see? A never ending war perpetuated by those who cling desperately to the past. A lie, sure, but one they will never back down from.” He paused, placing his cup down gently and calmly adjusting his sore leg. “There is nothing to be done for the Darcsen. Europe’s hatred for them has become too deeply ingrained. Even if the truth was to come out, nothing would change. As long as the Darcsen man’s harvest is more ripe then his neighbor’s, there will be conflict.” Finished with his leg, he held out the palm of his hand. “And despite dominating Europe, the Yggdists still continue to stockpile weapons for some righteous crusade that will only end in more mass murder. How Valkyurian.”

  
  
Grigori brought his plate down. “If you hold the church in such contempt, then allow me to ask—why carry out their will?”

“As I mentioned earlier, paths sometimes coincide,” Montgomery said coolly. “Perhaps it is unclear at the moment, but my actions always take into account the best for the Empire and, by extension, Europe.” Grigori looked at him, expecting some form of clarification, but the Crow before him held a calculated expression. Montgomery continued in a calculated tone, “The future you desire will only bring more suffering. It will fail to change the foundation we have built our entire society upon.” He paused, gesturing with his hand. “There are only a few Darcsen uprisings in history, yet their attempts to liberate themselves always end up the same way—with the indiscriminate murder of Europeans, who are condemned for supporting the only system they have ever known.” With a hint of sarcasm he smirked, “Occupiers, right?”

  
  
Montgomery picked up his toast once more and chewed on it thoughtfully. “Have we not already seen the outcome of your envisioned future, Grigori? More killings and war. Even now I imagine your men are planting bombs in retaliation for your capture, targeting innocent people who probably harbor no ill will personally toward the Darcsen.”

  
  
“No ill will?” Grigori gritted his teeth, setting his plate down on the table a little harder than intended, clattering noisily. He shot out a hand for the bottle of vodka. “This whole nation… your ‘mother’… declared war on my people, dragged us from our villages to force us to work in her mines. Now when we strike back, this nation has the nerve to label us terrorists. Your Emperor brought this war home. Do not forget that.”

  
  
The two men stared at one another in silence, considering the other’s position. Grigori took a drink from the bottle and found himself impressed by the alcohol's purity. Montgomery finished his piece of toast started on a second. Though time ticked by, within the walls of the cell, it was impossible to tell how long they had been there. Grigori took several more swigs from the bottle as Montgomery finished his food.

The Lord Commissar brushed his hands and straightened up, continuing their conversation. “Do not misunderstand. I respect that position, Grigori. However, surely you can see that you have proven my point. Do you not advocate for a ruthless revolutionary terror? A terror that’s thoroughness would ensure the old rulers could never return to power?”

“I do, yes, but you suggest I wouldn’t limit its scale,” Grigori responded and crossed his arms,frustrated by the intentional dishonesty behind his adversary’s words. “The entire culture of this Empire is fundamentally, irrevocably diseased! There is nothing left to salvage. Too many men like yourself exist and will do all in their power to ensure a revolution fails. The average peasant and worker is not my enemy.”

“The average peasant and worker is more complex than you give them credit for. Instability causes them much distress; it’d be far easier to simply ignore the destruction of the Darcsen,” Montgomery said with a smirk. “As a result, the cycle of never ceasing violence can only be broken through a more drastic approach.”

  
  
“Which is why a cultural revolution is necessary,” Grigori replied dryly, reaching for his fork again. “There is no cycle. Such an idea is pure idealism. The revolutionary’s job is to educate the masses, to help them see that they have been duped into turning their rage against innocent people.”

  
  
“Such passion… Too few people have convictions anymore,” Montgomery mumbled to himself in dismay. He gestured vaguely with his hand and continued aloud, “Let’s say you succeed and seize the Imperial state. What comes next? Year Zero? How would you convince the millions people that do support the murder of your people to suddenly give up their bigotry?”

“Year Zero is simply a metaphor, Lord of Crows. A child born in our collective comprehends that much,” Grigori said condescendingly, tired of his words being misinterpreted so disingenuously. “We will create a new form of government, one that shows a better future is possible. We will liberate the human spirit by resetting the clock of history, freeing the mind from the lies of the church.”

“And you call me an idealist,” Montgomery said smugly, placing his chin in his hand. “Let us be honest. What you would see come to pass is only achievable with the point of the bayonet; even then, if you succeed here, the rest of Europe won’t simply embrace a Darcsen state even if it preaches equality for all people.”

“Then you tell me—what is the solution to Europe’s problems?” Grigori asked with an exasperated sigh, taking a long swig of vodka.

“The path untaken,” Montgomery said vaguely, pushing back from the table. “It might sound harsh, but the total destruction of the Darcsen is a tragic necessity for a lasting peace. But that is merely a half-measure.”

Grigori’s brown furrowed, and even though he had started eating again, he was still listening intently. Positioning his cane in his lap, Montgomery held onto its head as he spoke, “Thirty years ago, a rather fascinating person was brought before me. A valkyria… a living reminder of the conquerors who ruthlessly strangled Europe so long ago. However, there was something in particular that intrigued me. For you see, it was the fact she was an adult, one who had managed to avoid being found, despite her terrible power… At least until she chose to be captured by my men.” He paused, thinking of his first meeting with the strange being. “Never before have I seen eyes so empty, so devoid of any light or feeling. Taking that under consideration, do you know what she said to me, Grigori?”

  
  
The aged Darcsen man glanced up, “What?”

“She desired nothing more in her life than to die. To be free of the curse she had been inflicted with by the circumstance of being born at all,” Montgomery said smoothly, running his hand across the silver crow’s head that served as hilt of his cane. “When I asked her why she had not chosen to take her own life, the answer surprised me.” Changing his tone of voice, he quoted the valkyria, “I have come to the conclusion that these fools, who have the nerve to worship my ancestors as divine, deserve to have their very flesh rended from their bones… No more children will be born with this burden, and I will make sure of it.”

“Yes, and? What does this have to do with an alternative?” Grigori asked rudely, interrupting the Lord Commissar’s train of thought.

Montgomery frowned at the disrespect but relaxed once more. He continued, “Simple. The rage which burned deep within her heart was like a force; a power I have never experienced since, not even from other of her kind.” He smiled, making an elaborate gesture with his hand. “So I did what was logical. I made a pact with this being, an unshakable oath, drenched in blood and bound by steel. That our fates were to be forever linked, and together we would drag forth a peaceful age.” He tapped his chest, saying, “For she and I alone know that the only way to do so will be to eradicate not just the Darcsen, but the Valkyur as well, however they may manifest in our modern era. Only once both are nothing more than ashw will Europe finally be able to face forward rather than marching backwards.”

  
Grigori looked up, locking eyes with the man across the table as he consider the Lord Commissar’s dark ambition. The Crow’s eyes were distant yet piercing, as though he were looking into the future that carried his own success. Grigori began to laugh boisterously. “And you say you are just a man!” He pounded the table with his fist, wiping away a mirthful tear. He started to wheeze and gripped the table in a futile attempt to regain himself. Montgomery watched him, utterly lost on what was so entertaining. Breathing heavily, the older man continued as he calmed down, “Your hypocrisy is boundless, Lord of Crows… Such a vision would require conquering the entire continent, bringing yet another destructive war to innocent people.”

  
  
“As of this moment, all that can be seen in Europe’s future is more senseless killing. I aim to change history’s course and right this ship before we destroy ourselves,” Montgomery stated, as if it was a simple task. He returned to his tea, holding the cup in front of his face and declaring, “Only when the last Darcsen is buried, the last ruin reduced to dust, the last church burned, and the last priest shot…” He looked up over the rim, staring at the revolutionary. “Only when the very foundation of the whole of European society is shattered and rebuilt without such meaningless legends will such a peace be possible.”

Grigori’s eyes widened and he struggled at first to conjure up an appropriate response. He had to admit he was unnerved by the totality of the Lord Commissar’s desire, but he maintained his composure and said, “I can tell you are a man of immense will. Though I have to ask, won’t bringing forth this new age involve desecrating the corpse of the Empire you love so dearly?”

  
  
Montgomery’s eyes darkened, and a creeping sadness caused his hands to grow cold. “Sometimes it’s necessary to hurt the one you love most in the world to save them from ruin.” The sadness quickly dissipated, and a firm resolve replacing it and pushing his anxieties from his mind. “The Empire is eternal and will live forever in the hearts of her devoted sons. Unlike the Emperor, who is nothing more than a bloated tyrant whose mind has been poisoned by the myths of the Valkyur. He is no man—just a cockroach digging through refuse left behind, hoping for some kind of direction. Like any bug, he will be squashed so my Empire can be allowed to grow strong again.”

Grigori, who had been taking another drink of Vodka, nearly spit upon hearing the man across the table speak with such hatred for the sovereign. With a grin, he said, “Hoho, I suppose I have no choice but to agree with you on that. The Emperor is nothing but a roach.”

  
  
Montgomery raised his cup and nodded, “Ah, at least we can agree on one thing.”

  
  
“Though I must admit, I find your views… bizarre, really,” Grigori said before bringing the bottle back to his lips and chugging down the alcohol, as a bit dripped down into his beard. Once finished, he sighed with satisfaction and finished his thought. “So tell me. How do you expect to exist within a state such as this and not be molded to its viewpoint?”

  
Montgomery’s face seemed to contort briefly into a grimace, only for it to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. He spoke wistfully, though perhaps with a twinge of regret. “A long time ago… I wrote a book about the absurdity of changing a system from within.” He took a deep breath, feeling a sense of loss for the path he had be denied taking when he had first been conscripted. “However, now I can say with confidence that I am living proof it is possible, that immense spirit can stand against any force that tries to change it. After all, when surrounded by wolves, is it not correct to dawn the skin of a wolf? My patience has been rewarded, and now I possess resources I could have only once dreamed of.”

Grigori sighed and picked up his plate, bringing it close to his face. “Do you think your masters will just sit idle and allow you to destroy their own work?” He turned the plate up to allow the last bits of rice to slide into his mouth.

“Let them try to stop me. They wouldn’t be the first. So far, the hand of fate has protected me.” Montgomery said, emotionless. He leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands. “My path has been set, and I know what must be done to save my Empire.”

The Darcsen man shook his head and turned his attention back to cleaning his plate. Before taking another bite he muttered to himself, “Reactionaries are always so delusional… but it doesn’t matter. Once the spring of class consciousness is opened, it cannot be ceased.”

Montgomery’s ears pricked up, hearing one of the loathsome terms he had read in Grigori’s writings. “What was that?”

  
  
“Nothing,” Grigori shrugged, glancing up with an equally smug aura. Knowing his time was approaching, he started to shovel the rest of his food into his mouth.

Montgomery watched the display andleaned back, reaching into his coat pocket. “Since we are wrapping up, there is one more thing.”

  
  
Grigori stopped drinking to watch as the Lord Commissar held out a printed sheet of paper. Taking it in one hand, the revolutionary squinted and smirked. “Traitor? I was branded a traitor the moment I was born in this country.” He placed the sheet in the center of the table and turned his attention back to the last of his food.

Montgomery frowned and pushed the paper back toward his adversary. “It’s for record keeping purposes.”

  
  
“Record keeping…” Grigori shook his head, amused. “Are you really such a small man? Does others admitting their guilt help you sleep easier at night, Lord of Crows?”

  
  
“You would be surprised,” Montgomery answered smoothly, as he took the paper and crumpled it up. “But you are right. Besides, long ago we stopped keeping track of the deaths of Darcsen in our country.”

Grigori stared darkly at York as he shot back the last of his drink, before throwing it against the wall of the prison cell. The glass exploded and skittered loudly across the concrete floor. “I suppose it is time, then?”

Montgomery reached into his coat. “Indeed it is. thank you for humoring my questions.” Slowly he removed this pistol, taking aim at the revolutionary's head.

Grigori offered a kindly smile as he stared into the barrel of the pistol. “I would say its been a pleasure, but that would be a lie.” He gingerly removed his scarf and tightly wrapped it around his eyes. “I must say, however, that I pity you, Montgomery York. For one day, you will sit where I am… and your executioner will be a representative of the very state you serve.”

  
  
Montgomery hesitated for a moment before regaining his composure. “I alone represent the Empire. They would be a mere imposter.” He paused to steady his hand, before continuing, “My soul has long been condemned to the blackest abyss. In the end, it will be fate that decides how the world will be reborn… if every Darcsen and Valkyria must die to allow Europe to rest at last, then it’s a price that must be paid.”

  
  
Grigori started to laugh heartily. With unshakable confidence, one born of an unbroken revolutionary spirit, he proclaimed, “It is a shame you will fail as all the others have! My people are resilient! Unyielding! We will outlast you, just as we have the valkyur!”

Montgomery allowed his opponent to finish, once again finding himself appreciating the declaration more then he should have. Only when Grigori started to quietly recite a Darcsen poem about the beauty of life did the Lord Commissar start to speak. “Grigori. For crimes against the Imperial State, I hereby sentence you to death. Long Live the Empire.”

Without a second of remorse he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and the lifeless body of Grigori slumped over in the chair. Montgomery felt an intense feeling of loss, though it soon dissipated. Out of respect, he placed the pistol down on the table, as it would no longer be of any use to him Wordlessly he limped out the cell before motioning to the guards to clean up the mess.

\--April 1936--

The murder of Grigori represented a significant change for the Darcsen Liberation Movement, which continued to fight its own war unknown to the rest of the world. New leadership took over, and quickly the offensives began once more. Bombings, assassinations, even bank robberies continued to plague Montgomery’s office all the way up to the start of the Second European War. Under direct orders from the Lord Commissar, Klara conducted a ruthless series pogroms in the Eastern provinces of the Empire, which would serve to drive the Darcsen guerrillas deep into the mountain ranges at the edge of the country. They were spared total annihilation, as the Commissariat was forced to turn its eyes westward to make sense of the Federation’s attack of Schwartzgrad.

With some breathing room, the DLM once again sent out it cells to probe the strength of the country determined to destroy them. The groups moved at night, sticking to underdeveloped regions of the Empire to avoid attracting undue attention. It proved to be a complicated task; it wasn’t just the Commissar’s the Darcsen had to avoid, but also the peasants themselves, many of whom would be eager to sell Darcsen laborers to the Commissariat for a generous monetary reward.

  
It was these fears, as well as the legacy of her grandfather before her, that found Lowe on her third patrol for the day, where she’d encountered a young hunter who, judging by the man’s panicked expression, meant he’d stumbled upon them entirely by accident. She kept her pistol trained on him, her wild, dark eyes and rain-soaked hair clinging to her face giving her an intimidating visage.

The young man had been hunting deer, not Darcsen,but he had startled his earlier prey.The rain had interrupted his tracking and he took a wrong turn on his way back home. Clutching his rifle, he stuttered both in fear and from the cold, “I-I do not want any trouble.” His eyes drifted to Lowe’s traditional scarf, which was wrapped around her mouth and hiding the lower half of her face. “My God, y-you are one of those Columnists…”

  
  
“If you want to live, you will be silent,” Lowe commanded, taking a step closer toward the frightened man. She kept her weapon trained on him, knowing all too well he would shoot her like an animal if given the chance.

  
  
The hunter stepped backwards into another person standing behind him. He whipped around in a panic, then let out a choked cry. With a shudder, the knife was withdrawn, but before the man could fall the other person caught him and led him gently to the ground. The man, a scruffy, bespectacled Darcsen man, began to recite a prayer for the dead in a soft, melodic voice. It was one of many traditions the people of the Column spent their early years studying; not just political education, but also learning from elders to keep their heritage alive. Tradition is what bound them together, in the end.

As the hunter drifted on to the next world Lowe watched as her comrade Nacht quietly draped the hunter onto the muddy grass. She sighed, putting away her pistol. “That was unnecessary. We were going to have to move soon, anyways.”

  
  
Nacht knelt down and began through the hunter’s belongings. “He was cornered. I didn’t want to take the chance that he might shoot you, comrade.” He carefully took the rifle and found a spare clip of ammunition for it. As he placed the ammo in his knapsack, he sarcastically added, “How would I explain to our elders that I got our dear leader’s only living descendant killed?”

  
  
Lowe knew her comrade was teasing her, but grimaced anyway at the reminder. She rolled her eyes, a sour look on her face. “I don’t think Comrade-Marshal Dimitri would mind if I didn’t come back. I broke one of Grigori’s rules.”

She had challenged the decision of the Elder Komitet to ignore the Nordic Civil War in favor of starting their Spring offensive early. In doing so, Lowe had broken the founding tenant of their organization, which held that once a decision was made, there would be no debate for a set period of time.

  
  
“Ah, don’t say that, comrade,” Nacht said, standing up and slinging the rifle over his shoulder, which knocked against his Karbiner. “He loves you as one of his own children.”

  
  
“No, he loves me as political tool he can use as leverage against the rest of the Komitet,” Lowe said pessimistically, turning back to the camp and kicking dirt over the remains of the campfire.

  
  
“Maybe so,” Nacht shrugged, moving to roll up his sleeping bag. “But I think killing the hound is still a noble pursuit. Comrade Sokolov didn’t deserve to be…” He trailed off, remembering the state of his friend’s corpse.

  
  
“Comrade Sokolov died a martyr,” Lowe said confidently, firmly gripping Nacht’s shoulder and shaking him out of his thoughts. “We will make sure the Lord of Crows remembers that for every one of ours, we will kill one of his flock.” She retrieved her hand to wrap her scarf around her dark hair. “… Afterwards, though, we should head North.”

  
  
Nacht scratched his beard, “Are you sure? We are already treading a thin line.”

Lowe nodded and stepped close to her comrade. “The Nords are bleeding, and we should treat their struggle as our own. I do not care what the Komitet says. Grigori would have come to their aid.” She touched Nacht’s arm tenderly. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”  
  


“Never,” Nacht said, placing a hand over hers.

  
  
She offered a faint smile. The two lingered together briefly before Lowe spoke up. “Come on, we need to move. With luck, it will take the family time to find the body.”


	2. Chapter 2

Karl reached Schwartzgrad an hour after the morning rains had subsided, with the bright sun revealing itself. He stood, squinting in the sunlight, at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the main entrance of the Commissariat headquarters. The building looked like any other in the military district—high stone arches and a Gothic flair did much to conceal what was hidden within.

He did not stop to admire the architecture, though, instead soon pushing his way into reception area which was guarded by two men in black armor. They recognized Karl immediately and waved him by. A stern nod in greeting was all he gave them in return before he headed up the stairs behind their desk.

As he reached the second floor, he ran into a haggard Ulyana. She stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, “Commissar Ludwig! You are back!”

Karl stopped and smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Ulyana.” He quickly frowned, “I told you, there is no reason to be so formal with me.”

“Right. My mistake,” Ulyana said, shifting a stack of folders under her left arm.

Karl noticed them and raised an eyebrow. “Montgomery isn’t working you too hard, is he?”

She shook her head and straightened up. “Someone has to pick up the slack in your absence.” She held up one of the manila folders. “These are just relocation orders.”

“Another round?” Karl asked, putting a hand in his pocket; he wasn’t as surprised as his tone made him sound.

“The Gallians are starting to get restless. Klara left for Eckholz yesterday,” Ulyana elaborated, referencing one of the two border towns around the state of Gallia itself. “They will be sent East until the situation stabilizes.”

“Odd for Montgomery to show such restraint…” Karl muttered. “These half-measures will only cause problems later,” he mused, before speaking up, “I’m sure he has a good reason.”

“I am certain he does,” Ulyana nodded, echoing Karl’s admiration for the Lord Commissar. She sighed exasperatedly. “If only that Sündenbock hadn’t been all talk.”

Using his free hand Karl rubbed his face, only now realizing how tired he really felt. “Unfortunately, in that specific case it is largely out of his control. He has been forced to play the part of the fool,” he explained. Ulyana looked confused; seeing she had never been informed of the nobility’s plot against the reformist prince, he smoothly changed the subject,“Well, it certainly sounds like Volker has his work cut out for him. The camps are already well past capacity.”

Noting that she might have walked into a closely guarded secret, Ulyana followed his redirection. “He did petition the Emperor for at least two more building permits. So far we haven’t received a response.” Furrowing her brow she grumbled, “It’s as if the old fool doesn’t truly grasp the gravity of the situation.”

“Given his current mental state. I doubt he does,” Karl said, having personally concocted the news reports to excuse the Emperor’s absence from public events. The current line was that the aged autocrat was taking a much-needed vacation. “I, for one, do not envy Empress Gothia’s position.” He started to move past her, but paused. “Before I speak to Montgomery, has there been any new developments?”

Ulyana placed a finger on her chin in thought. “There is a delegation from the United States that is set to arrive in a few days, but I imagine Lord Commissar York will brief you on the situation.”

“The United States? Interesting… Now if you would excuse me,” Karl said with a nod as he made his way down the hallway.

“Of course,” Ulyana replied, watching him leave before descending the stairs with her own paperwork to telegraph out the new orders for the commissars.

\--

Karl stopped outside Montgomery’s office and took a deep breath, taking the time to straighten up his uniform before entering. He was somewhat surprised as he walked in to find the Lord Commissar’s radio was tuned to the frequency of a station located within the Federation. The announcer a woman with a sultry voice was reading out recent victories against the Empire. Montgomery himself was leaned back in his chair with eyes closed, resting both hands on his stomach.

Hearing the door open he cracked one eye and muttered, “Ah, Ludwig.” He sat up and rolled his chair over to the radio, clicking it off. “Please tell me you bring good news.”

As the Lord Commissar rolled back, Karl walked up to the desk and reached into his coat pocket, removing the latest operational report. “I believe the situation in the North will be resolved in two to four months.”

Montgomery held out a hand for the report. As Karl passed it over, he said, “And what about Heinrich’s brats? Did his writings embellish their combat potential?”

Taking a seat across from his boss, Karl fished out a cigarette and held it. “Mm, yes and no. I would say he certainly lied about the universal applicability of such a project… most likely to secure more funding.” He placed the cigarette in his mouth before lighting it. He paused to inhale, and nodded as Montgomery pushed the ash tray towards him. He exhaled and continued, “Given their age, their recklessness is within expectations. That said, though, I think both girls are exceptional fighters. With a little guidance, perhaps they could grow into being capable commanders.”

Montgomery paused his half-hearted look through the updated report, eyes flicking up to Karl. “Oh? And who might provide such guidance? You, perhaps?” There was a particular iciness in his tone of voice that came through his heavy accent.

Karl exhaled a cloud of smoke and paused, trying to read the Lord Commissar’s intent. Feigning ignorance, he leaned back and asked, “Have I done something unsatisfactory, sir?”

“Karl,” Montgomery said invoking his most trusted subordinate’s first name—a sign of respect, but generally an indication of seriousness. “I am willing to tolerate any paternal delusions if it helps you focus on the task at hand.” His piercing blue eyes fixated on Karl’s worn face as he continued, “But our organization’s affairs are insular. Involving Empress Gothia sets a dangerous precedent.”

Karl took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose with his thumb and ring finger, tactically holding the cigarette away from his face. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “You said it yourself, Montgomery. Our Empire has become far too wasteful… Retiring Nikola and Chiara would be just that.”

Still leaned back comfortably in his chair, Montgomery found himself puzzled by Karl turning his own words back around on him. Clasping his hands together, he said, “My concern was –and still is, for that matter– that we cannot be sure where Nikola and Chiara’s loyalties truly lie. Heinrich's indoctrination was frightfully thorough.”

Karl started to speak but Montgomery held up a hand. “That point aside. Now I am worried my most stalwart companion not only doubts me, but instead of speaking to me directly on the matter, chose to involve those who have no business making decisions for our office.”

“Then allow me to formally offer my resignation, as you are correct. I have committed a grievous error,” Karl said apologetically, fully aware of what he was suggesting. “I merely ask to be allowed forty-eight hours to get my affairs in order.”

Startled by his subordinate’s request Montgomery sat up immediately. His face hardened considerably. He hissed, “Quit being so dramatic, Karl. What would I do without you?” He leaned forward and drummed his fingers across table in thought. He could tell his most trusted conspirator was serious. “I am shocked, is all… that this of all places is where you have drawn the line.”

Karl took another puff and shut his eyes, exhaling. “I know it’s foolish. Hypocritical, even, given our own complicity in projects like that one, but I pity them both.” Opening his eyes again, he made an elaborate gesture with his hand, “It’s just… hard to look at those girls and not see the blood which stains my own hands. Heinrich may have held the scalpel, but it was our office that allowed him to operate in the first place.”

“So it feels personal, then?” Montgomery asked, placing a hand under his chin and studying his most trusted comrade’s face closely.

“I know it should not,” Karl answered, fully aware that part of the job was compartmentalizing his own feelings. His face changed as he stared past Montgomery out the window, his eyes becoming sullen. “As you know… I had hoped to have a family. Still do, is all…”

  
  
“There is nothing wrong with such a wish, Ludwig,” The Lord Commissar said with shocking softness, knowing his most loyal soldiers gave up so much for a vision that wasn’t even their own. He glanced down at his messy desk. “If you would like, I can grant you the same permissions as Volker. Lord knows you’ve earned it.”

  
  
A bemused look came to Karl’s face as he considered the head torturer’s uncanny ability to be an excellent husband and father despite his murderous inclinations. He shifted in his seat and shook his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, Montgomery. But I imagine you know full well that could only end poorly.”

  
  
Montgomery smiled softly. “I know, I know… but Ludwig, tell me.” He waited for his subordinate to look at him before continuing, “Your mental health is of great concern. Can you say what makes these two different from our millions of conscripts? Our Empire is demanding. She expects much from her devoted soldiers. To die for the motherland is a reward any soldier should gladly seek.”

“Then wouldn’t you agree that I should have died twenty-three years ago?” Karl said with an edge to his tone, which caught his older superior off guard. “It was your decision to spare me such an honor. The mission had only one loose end left.”

  
  
“Hmm.” Montgomery pushed back from the desk, spinning his chair around so he could look out the window. Karl continued to smoke quietly, waiting for his boss to speak. The Lord Commissar removed his glasses and spoke quietly, “If the first war taught me anything, it’s that the human spirit is the strongest force on this Earth. So many today do not understand that it is not machines of iron or saviors from on high that built Europe, but the unshakable will of men who stand upright no matter the forces they encounter.”

Turning back around, Montgomery pulled himself back to the desk. “You are such a man, Karl Ludwig. When we spoke in that hospital, I felt the conviction, not of a wounded soldier, but of an autocrat. One that reminded me why I have always held that an ailing autocracy is stronger than a flourishing democracy.” Still holding his glasses in his right hand, he nodded. “I never had the pleasure of meeting him, though if I was to guess, the First Emperor—the man who built this magnificent country with his own calloused hands and took his role as a father seriously, knowing it was his job to guide humanity gently toward a better future—was a lot like you, Ludwig.”

  
  
Karl felt briefly overwhelmed by hearing such high praise, especially from a man whose opinion he held in great regard. He turned away, scratching his cheek with his thumb, and muttered, “I, um… do not know what to say.”

Montgomery held up a hand. “Do not say anything. It is merely my opinion. I am not asking you to become full of yourself. Humbleness is an admirable quality.” He sighed, allowing his feelings to dissipate and returned to a more profession tone. “But I see your point, Ludwig, and I am sure you will be glad to know that your dangerous gambit has paid off. Empress Gothia personally involved herself and instructed me that neither girl is to be harmed. So once the mission in the North concludes, out of respect for you, I will endeavor to find a more humane retirement for those girls.”

Visible relief washed over Karl and he relaxed considerably. “…That is good news.”

  
  
“Not entirely,” Montgomery said, returning his glasses to his face. “Unfortunately, Empress Gothia has also decided to honor them as heroes of our alliance.”

  
  
Now it was Karl’s turn to be perplexed. He cocked his head to one side. “So she wishes to use them as propaganda?”

  
  
“It would be quite a compelling story, no?” Montgomery said thoughtfully, looking over at the map of the Empire. “Two normal girls, barely fifteen, see the failures of our own military and take up arms against the barbarians invading our great nation. Has a wonderfully patriotic ring to it.”

  
  
“Aside from the fact they will once again be reduced to nothing more than pieces on a chessboard,” Karl said blandly. He could already feel a headache coming on.

“Yes, but at least this time Heinrich will not receive an ounce of credit.” Montgomery smirked, always willing to take jabs at his rival.

Karl took another long drag from his cigarette, trying to steady his nerves. He looked up and exhaled, “Would this mean she intends to acknowledge the disaster? Doesn’t that breach the secret clause within the treaty?”

Montgomery shook his head. “I doubt it. I imagine she will credit them for some nebulous action during the Federation’s offensive,” he trailed off, sighing pessimistically. “After all, aside from Field Marshal Richthofen's Pyrrhic victories in the South, what do our worthless officers have to be proud of?” He frowned, curling his hand into a fist. “Casualty numbers that now surpass the first war by millions? I refuse to see my life’s work undone by their incompetence.”

  
  
Noticing the change in atmosphere, Karl leaned forward and in a hush tone asked, “Have you made a decision on the date?”

Montgomery held up a finger, this time standing up and limping over to the radio to turn it on again. He rotated the dial to the Empire’s own radio station, Veritas, increasing the volume so the room was filled with the sounds a young woman reading off recent reports about military drills conducted by the Far Eastern Empire on the Imperial Border.

He shuffled to Karl’s side of the table and placed a hand on its side to keep himself stable as he spoke in a low voice, “I have overstepped my position. Catherine is watching me more closely than normal… I am certain some of her men searched my house a few days ago.”

“Are you sure?” Karl asked, aware of his boss’s deeply ingrained paranoia. When Montgomery nodded, the second question was obvious. “Has something changed?”

“Nothing major. You know how these things are…” Montgomery said as a malicious smile slowly crawled across his face. “But I might have allowed Volker to clean up a rather obnoxious Duke and his family. An unexpected delay is all.”

Another cloud of white smoke escaped Karl’s lips as he tapped his finger against his leg. “I was under the impression we were going to wait and deal with the nobility at a later date.”

“Yes, I have not forgotten,” Montgomery said, making a face. He took the time to adjust his maimed leg. “I had a lapse of judgment. That toad merely managed to catch me on a bad day.” Leaning into the table, he continued, “But to answer your question, I have not decided on a date yet for Plan Z. There are still those within our own office that harbor loyalty toward the status quo. They must be dealt soon. At this time, though, Klara and Volker have more pressing concerns elsewhere.”

“So we are still at square one, then?” Karl asked, sounding more exasperated then he intended.

Montgomery’s lips contorted into a frown. “Not at all, Ludwig. Our best men have pledged unquestioning loyalty to the plan. Even a few industrialists are more than sympathetic.” He paused briefly, staring at Karl’s face in thought. “These things take time. One wrong move and everything will come crashing down.” He pushed off the table, limping back over to his chair. “We must be patient. The right opportunity will present itself.”

“Patient,” Karl repeated, looking up. “Montgomery, we have been far too patient. Once our forts at Fontainebleau are overrun, the Federation will once again march its blood-soaked armies across our Empire.” He stood up suddenly, pushing the chair back as if to further drive his point home. “But you know that. You also know that the Prince Maximilian, despite his abilities, has been sacrificed. Gallia will be lost soon, too.”

  
  
Montgomery waited for his loyal subordinate to calm down. As Karl took a deep breath, York said, “Like it or not, that petulant bastard was an obstacle. The lofty idealism of a child cannot move mountains. At least this way, he is hardly of any concern to us.” The Lord Commissar slowly reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled it open. He removed two sheets of paper and placed them onto the desk. “But please do not think I have willingly chosen to jeopardize the war for my own personal beliefs. Thanks to recent setbacks, his majesty finally granted me permission to issue this order.”

Still standing, Karl picked up the papers and studied the top page, which signed in the beautiful cursive script of both the Emperor and Montgomery:

External Directive: 307

_B_ _y order of_ _H_ _is Majesty_ _T_ _he Emperor,_ _K_ _ing of_ _K_ _ings, all previously independent_ _Kampfgruppen,_ _with the exception of Drei Stern, a_ _re hereby_ _expected to fold into the main army_ _until the_ _frontline stabilizes._ _T_ _he actions of certain commanders has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that such freedoms no longer_ _serve to bring us a swift victory_ _._ _Effective immediately, the High Court of the Schwartzgrad Commissariat now has sole jurisdicition over military law.  
_

_In remembrance of Siegval,_ _any_ _C_ _ommander who acts in conflict with this direct order, or_ _who_ _retreats without first receiving proper authorization from High Command, will be arrested by Imperial Commissars and relieved of duty, pending an investigation._ _If m_ _isconduct_ _is found, the offending_ _O_ _fficer, no matter his_ _rank,_ _previous accomplishments,_ _or_ _bloodline, will be e_ _xecuted_ _._

_I_ _n such a dire time,_ _individual glory is of secondary importance._ _A_ _bove all else,_ _our goal is_ _victory._

_His Majesty The Emperor, King of Kings_

_Hold fast;_ _T_ _o the last man;_ _Glory to the Valkyur_ _  
_

_Imperial Commissariat of Internal Security_

_Lord Commissar_ _Montgomery York  
  
_

The stamped personal seals of both men meant the order was authentic. Karl looked up from the paper, surprise coloring his expression. “Has the army made an official response?”

Montgomery nodded and stood up once more. As he made his way around the table again, he said, “Some of our Field Marshals have lodged a formal protest against me personally.” He stopped next to Karl, who stepped over to give him some space. “As have some of the noble houses. They claim I have gone mad with power. At the very least, though, his majesty has started to see reason.”

“Surely now we know who is frightened by our actions,” Karl said. Such an order would do much to bring out potentially disloyal elements. He snuffed out his cigarette butt into the glass ash tray on the desk.

“Indeed. We now have a list of enemies, those who cower in fear at the thought of justice,” Montgomery said almost too excitedly. “I have instructed our men to conduct a few discreet interviews of those currently in charge of our Army Groups. Nothing too invasive. Just a couple of questions to see if we can better gauge their loyalties.”

“So that is why it was so quiet when I arrived,” Karl said while rubbing his face. The organization was already stretch to its operational limit.

  
  
“Yes. I sent Volker to speak to Field Marshal Julius. Kolya has been assigned to Army Group South and already submitted his report stating Richthofen is a loyal man. Not surprising, given their closeness.” Monty said, counting out his fingers before pausing. “As for Center, I would transfer Leopold, but hes got his hands full with our… Darcsen problem. So I sent Walther in his stead. He is a little green, but as I am sure you are aware, wholly devoted to our plan.”

Karl understood and decided to ask a different question. Inching closer, he whispered, “And what of Manfred’s search?”

  
  
Montgomery huffed, curling his hand into a fist. Angrily, he spoke, “We should have destroyed that ruin like the others. Hoping for a miracle to save us is foolish.”

“Plan Z was always a last resort. If this weapon can change the course of the war, then it is our duty as soldiers of the Empire to find it,” Karl retorted, fully aware he was the only who could speak to the Lord Commissar so casually.

  
  
“Yes, yes, I know. Manfred contacted me a few days ago. He supposedly has a new course. Although the Federation’s navy is making it difficult for him,” Montgomery said dryly. “Besides, until Saeoth is able to determine what became of the final piece, our hands are tied.” He placed a gloved hand on his subordinate’s shoulder. “But that is not of your concern, Ludwig. I want you to focus on bringing order back to the North. Have faith in me. Plan Z, if necessary, will come into fruition.”

Karl could hear a hint of doubt in his boss’s voice and raised his eyebrow as thought of Montgomery getting cold feet at such a critical moment. However, he did not protest further and instead forced a smile. “I trust you more than any other man in this country.”

  
  
“I ask nothing else,” Montgomery said, shuffling back to the radio, turning it off.

  
  
Karl watched him for a moment before speaking up, “Ulyana mentioned a Vinnish delegation.”

  
  
“Ah, yes,” Montgomery snapped his finger. He quickly moved over to his desk, picking up another report. “We are preparing quite the greeting for them. However, for now I am ordering you to take the next day off.”

“But –” Karl started to argue, but the Lord Commissar was quick to cut him off.

  
  
“This is not up for negotiation, Ludwig. You are exhausted. I cannot allow you to work yourself into an early grave.” He held out the report and Karl took it. “Go home and get some sleep. Ulyana can handle things in your absence.”

Karl lingered for a moment before saluting, “Yes, sir.”

-

The loyalists had relocated their main encampment to the more defensible Southern plateau. The move also allowed fresh supplies to be more easily transported by truck across the Imperial border. As the spring thaw finally began in earnest, the Imperial Navy positioned the remains of its Northern fleet to guard the inlet of the Crystal Sea, in order to deter the Federation from attempting a second plunge toward Schwartzgrad through the rebelling republic. In a flagrant rejection of the Empire’s sphere of influence, though, the unaligned state of Bergvin continued to allow volunteers to stream through its port to assist the republicans.

The geopolitical situation that had the Lord Commissar tearing his hair out never once crossed the minds of Nikola and Chiara. Instead, they were more preoccupied with the mess on the frontlines, thought that didn’t stop them from being easily distracted. The two girls jumped down from their transport and found themselves standing in snow only an inch below their knees.

  
  
“Eugh!” Chiara shivered and wrapped her cloak around her as the cold slowly worked its way from her damp boot upwards toward her thigh.

Nikola mumbled something rather obscene under her breath. In the darkness, she did not notice Chiara staring at her with a shocked expression.

Looking back down at the ground, the violet-haired girl kicked up a puff of snow and angrily exclaimed, “I hate this country! You hear me, Gunther? This country sucks!”

“That is awfully rude, boss. I happen to quite like it here,” Gunther said as he jumped down, landing a few feet behind them. His heavy pack rattled obnoxiously as he sunk heavily into the snow. “Besides this is a pretty tame winter. Don’t be grumpy just because wherever you are from had a nice, warm climate.”

Chiara’s eye twitched, and a malicious grin crawled across her face. She turned around, holding out both arms in an ominous gesture. “Tame, is it? Well then, give me your coat, dumbass.”

She took a step toward him, giggling with ill intent. Gunther’s eyes widened and he looked like a startled animal. He nervously took a step back and smiled weakly. “Huh? Hey, easy b—”

Gunther let out a yell as he got only a few feet away before Chiara tackled him. The two crashed into the snow with a dull thud. The girl laughed hysterically as she tried to wrestle the engineer’s coat from him. However, Gunther had no plans to give up easily and frantically tried to push her off.

Nikola watched the display with a bemused look on her face, finding it especially odd that her partner didn’t really seem to be trying in earnest. She wasn’t even bothering with an easy shot like stabbing him in the ribs with spikes on her elbow pad.

  
  
An unsettling voice to the blonde girl’s right caused her to jump. “Your partner certainly enjoys tormenting our engineer.” It was Sorina. whose red eyes had lost their vibrancy sometime during the trip. Now the ghostly woman looked oddly distant.

Nikola offered a small shrug and adjusted her crossbow so it hung horizontally near her hips. “Chiara cannot help it. She was born an idiot. I think it is nice she found someone possibly more simple-minded than herself.”

Sorina put a bandaged hand on her hip. With a knowing smirk, she said, “Always so harsh, Graf… If I may be bold, I think you are jealous of her. It must be hard being unable to feel anything.”

“Why y-you.” Nikola shot a glare, placing a hand on the hilt of one of her knives. Baring her fangs, she bit back, “Mind your own business, or I will carve your ugly face up even more.”

“You misunderstand me,” Sorina said, remaining eerily still. She seemed completely unperturbed by the threat. “I think in this scenario, you should follow Rocino’s example. Gunther is an innocent soul—one that, not unlike your own, was mercilessly torn from the world.” She ran her hand across the burn on her jaw and eyed the knife on Nikola’s hip. “…In my case, I prefer to find comfort in the pain that is considered natural, born within this miserable cage we call existence.”

“Do you have to be so incomprehensible?” Nikola asked, her anger fading to annoyance as she turned away from the bizarre woman. She watched as the soldiers of Kriegstotcher slowly filed out of the other transport, forming an organized black mass that stood starkly against the white snow.

Her eyes trailed the landscape back to the camp itself and were drawn to the two flags fluttering atop a crude metal pole planted in the center. She was unsuprised to see the Imperial eagle, although this particular flag was badly faded and bleached from the harsh seasons. Studying it drew up a discomforting sense of dread; she balled up a fist trying to fend off the sensation.

There was a second flag below it, though this one she did not recognize. It depicted a cracked skull, crusted in barnacles, being held up by a long squid’s tentacle; unknown to her, the imagery invoked an old Nord sea legend of a great monster that lurked in the depths of the ocean. In Latin, at the base of the flag read the words: _1_ _st_ _Imperial Marauders_. _As merciless as a wave._ ”

Around the flags was a standard military camp lined with numerous white canvas tents, with several few soldiers moving to and fro. Out of the corner of her eye Nikola noticed Siegward approaching from the other vehicle, taking care to outright ignore Chiara, who was now sitting on Gunther’s back and pinning the hapless man down.

  
  
With a disdainful gaze, Siegward pointed backwards with his thumb. “Are you going to do something with those two?”

  
  
Nikola looked past him at Chiara. She still seemed preoccupied with stealing the engineer’s coat, but now he was putting up a valiant struggle. “It is not hurting anyone. Chiara needs to blow off some steam, otherwise she becomes difficult to… manage.”

In an uncharacteristic display of understanding, Siegward nodded. “I suppose it keeps the blood flowing.” He shuddered as the wind blew, brushing back his long dark hair. “That said, the men are getting antsy. If things take too long here, we are going to have a few more fights on our hands.”

“Let them,” Nikola said authoritatively, watching as Gottfried foolishly tried to assist Gunther, only for Chiara to snarl at him. “Sparing keeps the senses sharp.”

  
  
“Sure, until someone gets killed and we are a few men short for the coming operation,” Siegward pointed out, quietly ruminating on the fact he was subordinated to a child.

“Then do not let them kill each other,” Nikola replied as if it were obvious. In X-0, the men were regularly encouraged to fight by Belgar in order to test their skills before operations.

  
  
“Lord Commissar York… such an odd man,” Sorina mumbled to no one in particular, pushing snow around with her foot. “He willingly embraces the dredges of society with open arms and treats them with gentleness.”

Nikola wasn’t sure what the sniper’s mutterings had to do with what they were talking about, but Siegward seemed. He shrugged in response and said, “York didn’t get to a position of such authority through noble ideals. He is the Lord Commissar because he understands the value of people, in all their shades.”

“True enough,” Sorina accepted the answer, tilting her head to the side in thought.

Ignoring them both, Nikola watched as Fedor hopped down from the back of the half-track and swung wide to avoid his other three comrades entirely. He walked over, rolling his white prayer beads in his hand. “Is it true? Does this Captain Ulf still follow the pagan beliefs?”

  
  
The older man seemed perturbed. Once again, Nikola found herself unsure what he was talking about. Fortunately, she did not have to say anything as Sorina spoke first. “Pagan beliefs? Are they not the very same stories your feckless church stole for their own manipulations?”

Fedor’s eyes narrowed and he squeezed his beads tightly in his sun-tanned hand. “Different conclusions, demon. You know that. Do not be coy.”

  
  
Siegward held up a hand and sighed exasperatedly. “Not this again. Both of you, please keep it to yourselves.”

“Conclusions? Hah. Don’t make me laugh,” Sorina chided coldly. “Delusions, more like, of a lying band of thieves who are scared of the truth. That there is no warmth to be found in the arms of the divine. At least the pagans knew to fear the Valkyur as beasts in human form, who would sooner drain the blood from a person’s body for their own entertainment than bring peace to the soul.”

  
  
“That is enough! Both of you will be silent. This is not relevant to the task at hand,” Nikola commanded, getting sick of hearing whatever nonsense they seemed to be so angry about. “If this comes up again, I will let Chiara flog you.”

Gottfried lumbered over after giving up on saving Gunther. The bearded man put a hand on his chin, catching Nikola’s authoritative tone at the end. “Hmm. Never a dull moment in this unit.”

“Missing the frontline yet?” Siegward asked, moving between his two feuding comrades.

  
  
Gottfried’s serious demeanor briefly disappeared and he chuckled. “At least on the front I could get a good night’s rest.” His eyes move to Nikola, who stood uncannily, only half-listening. “Seriously. Once you and Agent Rocino start arguing, it’s like listening to two alley cats tearing each other apart.”

Considering the imagery, Fedor relaxed slightly and couldn’t help but crack a smile himself. “I cannot escape the racket, even in my prayers. It is worse than even the Federation’s artillery cannons.”

Nikola’s brow furrowed. She had not expected the change in conversation. The ease in which the tension had diffused confused her. Especially when Sorina giggled softly and added, “I think I just realized why Trofim was asking to trade for my spare ear plugs.”

Siegward looked back at the man in question who was still wrestling for his life. He nodded. “Ah, you know… I never thought about it. Poor bastard is probably nearly deaf.”

“What is this insolence!” Nikola exclaimed after finally finding her voice, and shot a glare at them.

“Oh, relax, Agent,” Gottfried said warmly, resting his warpick on his shoulder. “We are just joking. Well, mostly.” The trio exchanged glances and soon started to laugh again.

Not used to being teased by her subordinates, Nikola huffed and pushed passed the chaplain toward her partner. As she walked by, Sorina quietly whispered, “Oh, my. How humorless.” Nikola’s face contorted into a frown, but she did not say anything else, clenching her fists and walking away with a sick feeling in her stomach.

Holding Gunther in place, Chiara smirked and chided, “Is this all you can do? Eheheh.” He weakly tried to push her off, which only caused her to cackle louder. She hit him with the bottom of her fist, trying not to impale him with her knuckles, and sneered, “Come on! I thought you had close-quarters training! Give me a challenge!”

  
  
Having accepted his fate, clothes now damp from the snow, Gunther held up his head slightly to say, “Never did pay attention during those courses… Besides, you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of your uniform?”

  
  
“What are you talking about it? That is easy,” Chiara insisted, landing a few more restrained blows. She paused with a malicious glint in her eye. “Oh, I know. When this mission is over… ahaha… you are going to learn to fight properly!”

  
  
The thought of training caused the color to drain from Gunther’s face. “I am going to die…” he muttered. A sudden yelp from Chiara startled him, and she lept off him. He sat up and turned to see his boss dancing around trying to get something off of the back of her neck.

Nikola stood next to him with a sadistic smile on her face. In her hand was a snowball. Calmly, she said, “Chiara, be serious.”

Chiara spun around, wide-eyed, and shuddered involuntarily from the freezing sludge sliding down her back behind her cloak. She crossed her arms and grumbled, “Y-you have to sleep eventually, bitch.”

“Oh, I am so scared,” Nikola sneered coldly. Gunther took the moment to clamber to his feet and grab his pack, which had been dropped at the start of the struggle. “Both of you, no more playing around. We have to focus.”

“You do not get to order me around,” Chiara said crossly. The two stared at each other tensely, preparing to fight once more.

However, the noise from Gunther rummaging around in his pack distracted them from their staring contest. He managed to procure a second identical jacket. He took off his currently snow-covered wool jacket, unbothered by the cold on his exposed arms. The snow fell to the ground in a puff, and he shivered once before dawning the second coat. Satisfied, he sighed, “Ahh, that’s better.”

  
  
“You had another one this whole time?!” Chiara exclaimed, feeling like it was cheating.

  
  
Gunther threw his pack back on and nodded. “Of course I did, boss. It’s cold out here.” He made a sarcastically shocked expression. “Wait, did you want one? They invented this fancy new idea called asking politely.”

“Or I could knock you out and take it!” Chiara said, shaking her fist at him.

“Well, that is not very nice,” Gunther said, clearly enjoying himself. He shrugged and added, “I guess I will just have to share with Agent Graf. She looks pretty cold, too.”

  
  
Nikola stared at him blankly. “No thanks. I imagine it reeks as bad worse then your workshop.” She pointed back to the rest of Kriegstotcher. “Enough. We need to get on with this.”

  
  
Gunther and Chiara exchanged annoyed glances, but did not protest anymore. They moved past her, Nikola following quietly behind. She found their camaraderie oddly discomforting for reasons she really didn’t understand.

Conveniently, as the three reached the rest of the squad, Captain Ulf threw open the flaps of the command tent positioned across from them, the giant of a man grinning ear to ear. Fully adorned in his battle regalia that was comprised entirely out of hard leather armor for greater mobility, he still managed to look intimidating despite his friendly disposition.

“He is certainly a big fellow,” Gottfried commented, pushing the head of his warpick into the snow and leaning on it. “You seem awfully small in comparison to your countrymen, Trofim.”

“You sound like my pops,” Gunther said, putting both hands in his pockets.

  
  
“Now that is an axe,” Siegward said, staring at the weapon diagonally holstered across the captain’s back. “I wonder if he would be interested in a duel.”

  
  
Sorina seemed to be in her own world, and began talking to herself. “So the stories are true… He fought and killed the last great wolf of the North in combat.” She did not sound wholly convinced as she referenced the remains of a white wolf that adorned the Nord commander’s head.

  
  
Chiara leaned over and whispered to her partner, “That is not Fenrir, is it?”

“No. It’s bigger.” Nikola was also fairly certain Crymaria’s pet was a few shades darker.

In comparison to the legendary warrior’s visage, the stern yet short Otto followed behind his commander, looking completely unimpressive in his steel Imperial armor. The loyalist strategist could have been mistaken for a common soldier had it not been for his well-maintained blonde mustache and astute gaze.

Nikola and Chiara both straightened up and came forward as Ulf held out a large hand toward them both. “Ah! The God of War’s emissaries have finally arrived. I must say, it is good to see my rescuers again.”

Neither girl understood his strange manner of speech and stared at the outstretch hand. Nikola looked up, “Captain Ulf. Are your men ready?”

He retracted his large hand, unbothered by her muted nature. “But of course, little one. My men are the true sons of the North! The call of battle is one we all are prepared to answer, even it brings us to our homeland.”

  
  
“That is good to hear, Captain,” Siegward spoke up, pulling a small envelope out of his pocket. He offered it to the two Nords. “The Lord Commissar offers his sincere thanks and a full pardon.”

Nikola and Chiara noticed it was stamped with a seal they did not recognize. Otto took it and slid it into his pocket. “Retirement papers. This will by my last campaign,” He offered as explanation, but did not clarify what exactly was being forgiven.

The two girls exchanged uneasy glances, feeling they were intentionally kept out of the loop for reasons they couldn’t discern. Ulf held out a hand to the group before him. “Let us begin. The sooner we are finished, the sooner we can remind our brothers who rules the North!”

-

Quietly they filed into the tent, which was already packed to the brim with all kinds of soldiers. Some wore the traditional gray armor of the Empire, intermingled with the blue-green colors of the Imperial marines. Soon the men of Kriegstotcher joined the mix, their black uniforms creating a rather drab spectrum among the crowd.

The atmosphere was rather tense, and there was an odd smell in the air which caused Chiara to scrunch up her face. Ulf and Otto walked over to a medium-sized wooden table, which only barely held the massive regional map draped over it. All sorts of tactical information had been scribbled on notes and pinned to the map in various places.

Gunther seemed awkward in the presence so many passionate Nords. “I think I will stay here.”

“Do not tell me you are nervous,” Chiara teased, tilting her neck to look up at him.

  
  
“Terrified, actually,” Gunther said, taking a seat on the wooden chair closest to the door.

Fedor’s eyes darted around, as he was uncomfortable as well. He mumbled, “I will stay with Trofim.”

“So much for the Almighty giving one strength,” Sorina said coyly as she pushed forward to stand at the other end of the table. Siegward joined her without a word, along with Gottfried, who felt it important to know the plans for himself due to his lack of faith in his commanders.

Nikola and Chiara took their positions on the horizontal end of the table, both studying the map curiously. Once everyone was situated, Otto cleared his throat and waited for the murmur to quiet down. He pointed toward the map, tapping his finger on the city of Varlstad, located in the Sigt region along the border of the neutral country of Bergvin. “The Blue Rose has set up its new provisional government here. Obviously, its strategic location allows them to funnel supplies through the port city of Zande.”

With a nod, Ulf took over. “Our misguided brothers outnumber us at least three to one. If we let this conflict devolve into a war of attrition, then the war will be lost.” He pointed at Bergvin and continued, “Not to mention, the volunteer forces are still landing, even now… Idealists, highly motivated, but are mostly a mixed bunch.”

Otto picked back up, gesturing to several dotted lines which connected various countries of the continent to the single port. “Edinburgh, Valois, and even Gallia have all sent volunteers, along with material aid to these rebels.”

“Hmm. How interesting,” Siegward commented, putting his hand on his chin, eyes fixated on the map. “I understand Edinburgh and Valois. They at least pretend to believe in something greater. But Gallia… Fascinating times.” He trailed off in thought.

Nikola wasn’t entirely sure what was so peculiar. She found herself asking aloud, “Care to elaborate?”

“It’s an international effort, but Gallia has never consider itself part of Europe,” Siegward said somewhat venomously. “I find it odd they would be trying to assist at all.”

“Actually, I think I can answer that,” Ulf said, tugging on his beard in thought. “In my cell, I heard some men talking about the shocktroopers. They are a band of defectors who were discharged from the main army.”

“Figures,” Siegward said, having expected it would not have been an officially endorsed expedition.

  
  
“Neutrality is a shield for cowardly pond scum who are too frightened to stand for anything,” Sorina said icily, eyes vibrant in the dim light of the tent. “We must hope Prince Maximilian succeeds and casts that blighted stain, along with all its people, into the sea.”

“I have no doubt the Prince will,” Gottfried said taking over the train of the conversation. “Some of our best commanders are with him.” He paused and looked over the map. “Let us worry about our current theater, shall we? Tell me, how far does the Federation’s interest in this conflict go?”

  
  
Otto moved around the table, running his hand across it, stopping diagonally to Nikola. “Short of proper boots on the ground. As for why such restraint… I imagine its because they are still reeling from the failure of their recent offensive.”

“Perhaps, but opening up a second front, especially one so close to our Capital, would put the war firmly in their favor,” Gottfried replied, trailing off as he considered the possibilities.

  
  
Siegward took his silence at face value and directed a different line of questioning. “Do we know if the rail hub in Lowerholm is still operational?”

  
  
Nikola felt her head starting to hurt, and found all the talking dreadfully boring. She glanced over to Chiara, who was already fidgeting and looking around erratically. The mustached loyalist nodded once. “Yes. Our foolish brothers are using it to transport supplies and men up to their front line, here.” He pointed at the space of the map between Lowerholm and the southernmost plateau, where their camp was located. “It’s a rather crude defensive line. If I was to theorize, I do not believe they intend to hold it. Just gauge our strength.”

“I see,” Siegward said, tapping his finger on the table as he crossed his arms. “Then it would be in our interest to overrun it quickly and push straight to Lowerholm. The faster we can secure the rail line, the better.”

Ulf spoke this time, his commanding voice filling the tent. “I am inclined to agree. However, a warning—” He held up a hand for dramatic effect. “Our brothers believe firmly in the restoration of the republic, and are prepared to throw their lives away to win the war. We must fight without mercy, for they will show us none.”

  
  
Finally losing her patience completely, Chiara exclaimed, “Then we cannot hold back!” She slammed her fist into the table, but given her small size, it made a rather weak thud. “We can sit here talking all day. It would be better to show them how Imperials fight!”

  
  
Muttering filled the tent and Nikola sighed, having known such outburst was coming. “My… simple partner is right. These republicans are expecting us. There is no point in delaying; we should engage them openly, on terms best in our favor.”

She moved a step closer to Chiara, and the two girls tried their best to appear in control as all eyes focused on them. Ulf couldn’t stop himself from grinning widely, and soon enough he was laughing boisterously.

Passionately he raised a fist and exclaimed, “By Gods! The little ones are right!” Addressing his men, he declared, “Let us remember Ostend, comrades! We made those Feds turn tail and run then. We will do it again!”

  
  
In response, the marines raised their own fists and let out a roar of agreement. They started to beat their fists against their breastplates, and the shouts and pounding of metal within the tent was briefly overwhelming. Only the men of Kriegstotcher remained eerily silent, quietly waiting for the excitement to die down.

Once things were back under control, Gottfried finally finished his train of thought from earlier. “Is it possible the United States is preventing the Federation from creating a second front?”

  
  
“I had not considered…” Otto raised both eyebrows and continued, “I assume you read the report? As far as we are aware, the soldiers from Vinland arrived sometime shortly after X-0 abandoned the North and my garrison was routed.” He pointed a position in the far North of the country. “They set up some kind of base here, and recently two more squads arrived, even more well equipped than the first.”

“Strange. But there was no official declaration war, correct?” Siegward asked, feigning ignorance about how much he actually knew regarding the developing situation.

  
  
Otto shook his head. “None at all. In fact, they have been incredibly silent in general.” He adjusted his breastplate, which rustled obnoxiously. “We do know they are studying the ruin they are set up in, but for what exactly, we are unsure. Imperial archaeologists have already combed through it once.”

“Vultures,” Fedor’s voice was heard from the back. The chaplain came to his feet, calmly walking up to the table. Chiara watched him approach but found her eyes drift to Gunther, who was steadily inching out of the tent. She nudged Nikola who stared as the engineer slipped out completely.

“Tch. This again,” Nikola whispered annoyed. She leaned closer to Chiara. “Will you stay on top of things here?” Given that she had never been trusted with any kind of responsibility in X-0, Chiara was a bit surprised and tried to go back over what her partner was saying, as if trying to find hidden malice.

Nikola stared at her blankly for a moment; she could nearly see the gears jamming in the other girl’s head. In an uncharacteristic display of encouragement, she said, “You can handle it. We have an equal amount of authority, according to Commissar Ludwig.”

Realizing she was serious, Chiara nodded enthusiastically. “Alright. Leave it to me.”

Fedor had already begun to cause a scene. “The Vinnish are nothing but thieves plundering artifacts that rightfully belong to the church! They are the enemy!”

“Easy there. We are already in a precarious situation. A full scale war with the United States can only cause us more problems,” Ulf said, trying to calm the agitated holy man who looked ready to kill most of the men in the room.

“Silence, heathen! I will not be idle while holy sites are desecrated!” Fedor shouted back causing an uncomfortable murmur to go around the tent. Nikola used the outburst as her chance to leave the tent. Quietly, she wove her way through the crowd of men before slinking out after Gunther.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're reaching the part of the story where elements that are introduced aren't entirely what they seem. If there are details introduced now that don't quite make sense yet, don't worry. It will all make sense later. We'll be drawing up an actual timeline to explain some of the (in)consistencies between the official timeline and this fic, so look forward to that.  
> We'll be on hiatus until January, so see you all in the new decade! (Wow, that's really weird to say.)


	3. Chapter 3

Stepping out into the cold, Nikola snickered quietly as she heard Chiara barking at the men, “Fedor! Stop disrupting the briefing, that is an order!” Wordlessly, Nikola moved away from the tent, keeping her eyes peeled for any indication as to where Gunther had wandered off to this time.

As a harsh gust of wind blew through the camp, the blonde girl shuddered, a cloud of white escaping her mouth. She wrapped herself tightly in the cloak that had been issued to her a few days after arriving at Kriegstotcher’s main encampment.

At the time, she had donned it without question. Now even as she stood ankle deep in snow, feeling the frigid air whip her face, Nikola wasn't entirely sure the purpose of the cloth. It seemed superfluous, really—she associated the accessory with the grand decoration on Imperial commanders. It wasn't even an ornate cloak; it was simple, a black and purple cloth with dark gray fur around her neck. In any case, she at the very least found it comfortable to wear, if not an unnecessary weight. It wasn’t something she would have found anything more than cumbersome in stealth missions, but standing around in this bitter cold, she could appreciate it.

Her perwinkle eyes flicked downward, and she saw a trail of tracks leading deeper into the camp. She smirked, thinking about how amateurish it was to not adequately conceal one’s movements in such an environment. Silently Nikola walked beside them, careful at first to muffle her own footsteps and lightweight enough to cause only a small indention in the snow.

She came to an abrupt halt as a childish grin worked its way onto her face. Looking around quickly, making sure she was alone, Nikola stuck her leg out. She giggled softly and brought her own tiny foot down into the engineer’s track. The size difference was big enough that she did not even disturb the snow around the indention.

An idea came to the normally withdrawn girl, and with precision, Nikola jumped from the one pair of tracks to the next landing without a sound. It was an odd display, one that would have not even been possible a year prior in X-0.Yet for a fleeting moment, she felt a comforting sense of wholeness, repeating the action two more times.The sound of crunching caused her to freeze in place, terrified someone would see her in her moment of weakness. Nikola felt an immense feeling of relief, as a single loyalist passed her without even looking up. Once he was out of sight, she straightened up, fluffing her hair, trying to come off as disinterested.

Confident her cold exterior had been restored, Nikola returned to her hunt, creeping along a row of dark green tents. She curled her nose preemptively, half-expecting to be assaulted by a cloud of disgusting cigarette smoke; instead, as she rounded a corner, she heard a high-pitched whistle followed by Gunther’s voice. “Whoa! Why is something like this out here?”

Nikola turned to her left, quietly creeping over to another row of tents and poking her around the far side. The engineer was standing with his back to her in front of the newest model of Imperial Heavy tank, nicknamed _Jubatas_ by some of the soldiers for its speed. Its massive 122 mm cannon was so large, in fact, the whole turret had be rotated backwards to prevent the vehicle from tipping over while moving.

She could not see, but Gunther’s eyes were glittering with excitement as he marveled at the piece of machinery. His enthusiastic exclamation caught the attention of a baby-faced mechanic with shaggy blonde hair, who’d been working on one of the landing crafts next to the tank. The mechanic stood up and said, “Impressive, isn’t she?” He hopped out of the back of the medium tank chassis, walking over to the engineer’s side. “I was surprised, too. But the Crow told me that this model’s trials are permanently suspended.”

Gunther looked over at the man with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously? I was under the impression that once they ironed out the weight issues, this model was going to be the start of the streamlining process.”

“I thought so as well, but you know how it is. Competing contracts all that,” the mechanic said with with a half-hearted shrug. “Though honestly, if I was to put money down on a reason, it would be that Far Eastern Empire breaking off our trade agreement.”

Gunther sighed, reaching up to adjust his cap. He had listened to plenty of the radio announcements about the declining relations between the two Empires. “’Peace in six months’ is what they told us… I wonder if that applies to a new war in the East.”

The mechanic, who had been holding a rag, wiped off his hands. “Bold to assume we can still win in the West. The front moves closer to our motherland every week.” He trailed off and nervously checked behind himself to see if anyone was listening, but overlooked Nikola, who had pulled back behind the tent. “So tell me, brother. Are you for peace?”

  
  
Gunther glanced at him warily. He’d heard the question before. “I prefer to stay out of politics.”

The mechanic narrowed his eyes, “So despite everything, you are too scared to take a stand? Just a coward content to be marched to his death so a few private industrialists can get a little richer.”

Nikola wasn’t really sure she understood, but watched as Gunther shifted uneasily, holding up his hands. “Not particularly excited about dying. Just trying to keep my head down.”

  
  
“Of course. That is what everyone says,” The mechanic said harshly, spitting into the snow, disgusted. “Hasn’t this war killed enough of our people? What has the Federation ever done to any of us?” He waved his hand angrily, “Nothing. It’s all bullshit. Now they tell us Nords to kill each other because some corpse on a throne is scared that his rule is coming to an end.”

  
  
“You are not Blue Rose, are you?” Gunther asked, still visibly uncomfortable, taking a step back.

The mechanic snorted. “Hardly. Those idiots are just convenient pawns for those hypocrites in the West.” He shook his head dismayed. “There will be no independence for the Republic. They will just allow themselves to become another colony.”

Gunther’s face betrayed his ignorance and discomfort, prompting the other man to move closer. “Just forget I said anything. I doubt a bumpkin like you can even read.”

  
  
Something about the mechanic’s condescension managed to get under Nikola’s skin, and she frowned. Coming out from behind the tent she shouted, “What is going on here!?”

Seeing her approach, Gunther looked genuinely relieved and waved enthusiastically. “Agent Graf! I am glad you are here!” He gestured to the mechanic, “Come and listen. My comrade here was just telling me a funny story.”

  
  
Nikola had a hard time interpreting his tone, but couldn’t parse any latent sarcasm. Stopping in front of them both, she put her hands on her hips, trying to appear confident. “Is that so, Trofim?” Her empty eyes flicked to other man. “Go on, then. I want to hear this story.”

  
  
The mechanic coughed awkwardly before saying, “You are not my commanding officer. I am under no obligation to answer you, midget.”

He turned and started to walk away, but did not make it very far. Nikola shot her foot out, kicking him in the back of the knee. The mechanic fell face first into the snow and she giggled with a malicious smirk. “Ehehe… You are quite the clumsy oaf.”

Getting up, he grumbled several choice words under his breath and she cracked her knuckles. “Say that to my face so I can make sure nothing is left of yours.”

The mechanic spat at her feet and left without saying anything else. As he did, Gunther sighed, massaging his eyelids, “Everyone is always so on edge nowadays.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Thanks. He was most likely looking for a fight.”

“Then stop being so weak,” Nikola said flatly, unimpressed by his restraint. “If you were to beat him senseless, he would think twice about messing with you.”

Gunther offered a small shrug. Turning back toward the tank, he said, “Sorry, Agent Graf. I prefer to avoid picking unnecessary fights.” As if it just occurred to the engineer, he smiled wryly. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

Nikola remained almost stock still and pursed her lips. “Honestly. Do you just enjoy being worthless?” She had followed him with the intent of disciplining his insubordination away from the rest of the men, per Siegward’s suggestion. Though she would never allow herself to admit she had taken the nobleman’s lecture under consideration.

  
  
But just as she was about to invoke an authoritarian tone, Gunther scratched his neck. “At least being worthless means less people are gunning for me.”

Nikola scowled at being cut off just as she had finished putting together her words in her head and started to speak again,“That is not what I–”

  
  
But he interrupted her,ignoring whatever she was trying to say. “No, no, I promise I will definitely let you and boss have the honor of being the center of attention in battle.”

“You are by far the most annoying moron I have ever worked with,” Nikola said exasperatedly. She had no idea how to discipline a subordinate who wouldn’t even listen to her. For a moment, she considered just kicking him in the shin a few times.

“I thought that was Chiara?” Gunther asked, almost beaming at what he thought was a clever comeback, especially when considering how much the two argued.

Nikola twitched slightly hearing him use her partner’s first name as if the two were friends. Glaring at him, she shook her head. “She is a moron too. But at least she is competent, and someone I can trust…”

  
  
“Really, now?” Gunther asked, as if he was surprised to hear his commander say something positive about her other half. “What a kind thing to say.”

  
  
“Can you just shut up?” Nikola grumbled, losing her patience with him. “Gah! I do not know why Commissar Ludwig would not let me kill you.”

Gunther faked looking offended, putting a hand on his chest. “You wanted to kill me, Agent Graf?” He shrugged both his shoulders. “But without me, who would take care of your precious Dunkel?

His words had no ill intent behind them, but the question for Nikola was like feeling razorwire being threaded through her stomach. Ever since the adjustments began, she had staked her whole reason for existing on her ability to carry the weapon and kill Lord Belgar’s enemies. Instinctively, trying to calm herself, she gingerly reached back to touch the crossbow. Even after being modified by a different craftsman, the girl recognized every single component and groove that made up the weapon. The whole thing was made out of a lightweightaluminum alloy synthesized by her master in his laboratory, and as a result, it was considerably lighter weight then all other small arms in the Empire’s service allowing for far greater mobility on the battlefield.

Tenderly, she ran her hands across the purple limb, which served to indicate Nikola’s primary concern was anti-personnel combat in contrast to Chiara’s red, directing her purpose toward anti-tank tactics. Still intensely focused, Nikola stroked the flight groove, feeling oddly calmed by touching the only steel component of the crossbow.

She broke the tense silence suddenly, saying quietly, “You are right. I did not mean to sound ungrateful.”Her vacant periwinkle eyes focused intensely on the tall Nord’s face, causing him to look away, uncomfortable. “Lord Belgar worked hard on the Dunkel… You should be more proud.”

Wondering what kind of landmine he had just managed to step on to, Gunther held up a hand, trying to soften his tone. “I, uh, was just kidding, Agent Graf.” He had heard the name Belgar several times, but he’d been keen enough to notice it never seemed to be invoked unless his commanders were fighting.

Nikola broke eye contact and allowed her hand drop down onto the top of the black leather quiver hanging from her belt. The bold red N stamped on the front was far more than the marking that helped her and Chiara keep their equipment separate. It carried with it the same significance as Fedor’s own etchings on his machine pistol. A way of focusing a weapon while giving it a personality. In effect, the person named Nikola was not the operator of the Dunkel, but the mechanism that allowed it to operate.

Seeing she was zoning out again, Gunther snapped his finger in front of her face, yanking her from her brooding. “Hey. You alright?”

“Yes…” Her response was distant, but she looked up again and asked, “Why would you make so many changes to our Dunkels? They were already perfect.”

  
  
Gunther mulled over her question, not entirely sure if she wanted a literal answer or not. After a moment of silence he shrugged. “They are fairly complex weapons. I did not have the right materials on hand.”

  
  
“Is that all?” Nikola asked, sounding almost offended. She swung the crossbow off her shoulder and held it near her stomach, clutching it tightly. Angrily she glared at him, “There was nothing wrong with it. It did not need any changes.”

“I did not intend to change anything major,” Gunther said hastily, seeing the flash of anger behind her normally empty eyes. “Its craftsmanship is far more advanced than most guns in our army. Since I didn’t have a blueprint or the craftsman, I had to improvise.” She continued to glare at him and he added, “Hey, it works, right?”

Nikola’s grip loosened. She had to agree; thanks to his own actions, she was still useful. “Tch. I guess.” She ran a hand over the now-smooth limb of the crossbow and whined, “But why did you remove the spikes? They were my favorite.”

“Of course they were,” Gunther said with a snort, but changed his tune holding out his hand. “Look, I got this trying to restring it.” There was a faint line from the base of pinkie to his thumb, which caused her to smirk. “So don’t feel bad. Your Dunkel bit me.”

“Good. Serves you right,” Nikola bit back,clearly enjoying the idea that her treasured possession hurt him in retaliation for his alterations.

“I assume its safe to say you didn’t like my tweaks?” Gunther asked, trying to gain a better understanding of what his commander was telling him.

  
  
Nikola paused then shook her head twice in a short, stunted motion. “No… that is not correct.” He looked at her even more confused. She sighed and rolled her eyes, changing her approach. “Well, you did fix them, right? They were broken.”

  
  
Gunther nodded, putting both his hands into his pockets, “Pretty banged up. The red one did not even shoot when I tested the trigger.”

  
  
“Then … thank you.” Nikola said softly, looking away from him, cradling her crossbow in a display of gentleness the engineer had assumed she was incapable of.

“Oh. You’re welcome,” Gunther replied, offering a genuine smile.

There was an awkward silence as the two stood across from each other in the frigid cold. The dark sky offered had lightened a little, but the world remained quiet. Finally, just as Gunther was starting to consider inching away, Nikola’s eyes flicked up and she asked, “I do not understand why though.”

  
  
“I am not sure I follow, Agent,” Gunther said, hoping she would at the very least elaborate.

  
  
Nikola huffed again, struggling to explain what she found so obvious. Enunciating slowly she said, “The project… _failed_ to live up to… hypothesized expectations.” The last two words were spoken through gritted teeth. “Therefore, it should have been retired, rather than continue. Why would you waste time on them?”

Something about her seriousness caused him to snort. “Well, because I owe Lord Commissar York a lot more than money. I’d probably walk across broken glass barefoot if he ordered me to.”

“Hmm that explains it,” Nikola said still whisper quiet as she carefully slung her beloved crossbow back over her shoulder. She began to wring her hands nervously in thought. After a moment she asked, “But why would you? If you can alter Lord Belgar’s designs, surely you should be working on a successful project?”

  
  
Gunther rubbed his chin, finding him unsure of how to answer her  peculiar line of questioning. “ Well, I uh…”  h e trailed off.  S he watched him intensely, as if his next answer was of immense importance.  H e  suddenly furrowed his brow and asked, “Hold on,  d id Lord Belgar only like to focus his efforts on projects he felt were successes?”

  
  
“A brilliant scientist always knows how to best and most efficiently manage limited resources,” Nikola said, quoting her master  on his original explanation  for why sometimes retiring a flawed weapon was more logical th a n expending valuable time adjusting it. 

“Sounds like a right and proper bureaucrat,” Gunther said, still oblivious as to how the line of conversation applied specifically to his commanders. Reaching into his coat pocket, he groped past all the lint and metal bolts for his pack of cigarettes. “A lot of guys I served with felt the same. But honestly, that kind of narrow-mindedness never sat well with me.”

Nikola eyed him as he pulled out the plain dark red box stamped with the Imperial logo and scoffed. “A simpleton like you can hardly call others narrow-minded.”

“No reason to be so mean. You asked,” Gunther retorted, shaking the pack and biting onto the butt of the cigarette. Letting it dangle in his mouth, he shrugged. “What can I say? I enjoy time-consuming pursuits. Keeps me busy.”

“That is… so strange,” Nikola said, finally giving up on trying to get the engineer to understand her latent anxieties.

  
  
“Is it?” Gunther asked as his demeanor changed slightly, and instead of grabbing his lighter he reached into his rear trouser pocket. Removing a black leather wallet, he moved over to the frontal hull of the tank. “You have to find something to focus on when surrounded by…” He gestured vaguely around them. “All of this. And I can hardly drink as much as Gottfried.”

Nikola rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively. “Just forget I said anything. It’s not important.”

“I may be stupid. But I think you are disappointed by my answer,” Gunther continued observantly as he fumbled with the wallet, pulling out a single photograph. “If there is one thing I am certain of in this unit, is none of us are here because we wanted to be.” He offered it to her. ‘Take a look.”

Nikola remained still at first but sighed, carefully reaching out to take it. “This better be going somewhere.”

“Who knows? It might be,” Gunther said mustering his wit. “I would not dream of wasting your time, since you cared enough to follow me all the way out here.”

  
  
“We are going to get to that. Do not worry, fool,” Nikola said ominously, studying the photo. It was black and white, with three visible men in it. Each man was adorned in the standard armor of an Imperial conscript, with one specific modification which was several parallel black stripes across the helmet and breastplate. Thanks to her training she knew that denoted the soldiers as some variety of special forces affiliated with the main army.

The two men in the foreground had their arms around each other and were smiling at the cameraman. The third man in the background was smoking and leaning against a massive tank of some kind, which had a huge rectangular turret with a ridiculously oversized artillery howitzer mounted in the front. On its side was an emblem depicting a concrete bunker crossed underneath by a grenade and First War-era flamethrower. In Latin, a faded slogan read, _T_ _o the_ _W_ _est_ _!_ _2_ _nd_ _Assault Pioneers._

Still looking down at the image, she shuffled over to the engineer who was quietly smoking. She looked up and back down as if unsure before pointing to the man in the back and saying, “Ok, then this one is you.”

Gunther held out his cigarette and a small wisp of white smoke floated upwards from the glowing tip. “You could be a detective, Agent. What gave it away?”

“Keeping pushing your luck, and you will be eating those cigarettes,” Nikola threatened making a fist at him.

  
  
“Such a way with words. Perhaps being a poet is more fitting,” Gunther said before taking a deep inhale. As he blew smoke out from his nose he pointed at the tank in the picture and asked, “Do you know what that is?”

Nikola squinted at it and shook her head; it wasn’t surprising that she didn’t know, considering her knowledge of Imperial arms ended with X-0. “No. It looks dumb.”

“You mean to tell me Lord Belgar did not even give you a proper history lesson on this war?” Gunther said cheekily, but quickly straightened up seeing her eyes narrow. “Right, my bad… It was a siege cannon commissioned by the Emperor to help us breakthrough a line of fortifications on Wessel’s border.”

  
  
Nikola turned the photograph around, but it was blank on the other side. “I see.”

“Do you know how many were made before the designers with Revelle elected to discontinue the whole project?” Gunther said dryly, fully aware it had been his choice to dredge up his own past.

Nikola pulled her head back trying to avoid from the strong smell of rotten leaves, which clung to the engineer heavily as a result of his preference for the state-produced brand of cigarettes. Unable to escape, it she stared down at the snow covered ground, “I do not want to know.”

  
  
“Fair enough. Not very many,” Gunther said, still totally ignorant of her feelings. He held out his cigarette in one hand, feeling incredibly tired. “At the time it probably seemed like a good idea, but once it actually saw action, it was completely out of touch with the realities of mobile warfare. The engine was too weak to support that massive turret’s weight. Plus, the huge shells were expensive to make and even harder to transport in the field.” He chuckled bleakly, remembering how during a critical battle, the loader had shouted over the radio that he dropped the last shell, and by sheer bad luck, cracked its casing.

He reached over, pulling the photograph out of Nikola’s hand and returning it to his wallet. “But disaster or no, I cared a lot about Gerdun. She was a complete mess and difficult to work with in the field.” Pausing, he took another drag thoughtfully. “But in the end, I enjoyed every second I spent working on her.”

Nikola’s face contorted with disgust and she sneered, “Gross. It sounds like you loved it.” She was surprised at Gunther’s response, which was to wheeze and bust out laughing at her attempt at bullying him. “Hey! You are the freak here, tank fetishist!”

  
  
The engineer nearly doubled-over, cracking up, and Nikola felt her cheeks get hot. Just before she could lash out at him, he put a hand out on the metal hull, pulling himself back up. “Sorry, Agent Graf. You just reminded me of an old friend.” He paused for a second, then added, “Though you are not entirely wrong. I always end up growing attached to broken machines.”

  
  
His remark caused her to relax considerably before briefly tensing up again as she ran through it one more time in her head. She couldn’t tell if he was serious. From her experience, though, every weapon would need repairs after prolonged use in the field. As far she was concerned, he was the only experienced engineer in Kriegstocher. With that thought in mind, she spoke softly, “It’s Nikola.” He glanced over and she repeated herself, “Nikola is my name.”

  
  
“Really now?” Gunther said humorously. “Boss was always insistent it was ‘arrogant bitch.’”

Nikola stepped back, startled by the lightness in his tone, but she started to smirk. “Did she? Hah.” She trailed off coming up with a few ways to make her partner suffer. Filing that idea away for later, she glanced up at the engineer. “I am your boss too. Stop being so formal with me.”

  
  
“Ah,” Gunther gave her a quick nod. “My mistake, boss. We are comrades after all.”

“Comrades,” Nikola echoed, her mixed feelings settling in her chest. She realized there was a small smile on her face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. She looked at the engineer curiously and asked, “What happened to Gerdun?”

Gunther flinched and his eyes darted away. “It’s not important. Just know a lot of us lived because of her.”

Nikola considered pressing him for clarification, but his pained expression made her decide to drop it. There was no point upsetting her new engineer, since she was going to need him later. Returning to her flat tone, Nikola decided to move the conversation forward. “Fine by me. I have had enough of stories. Now it is time to address your continued insubordination.”

“Right,” Gunther said, grateful to drop the subject entirely. He stood up straighter and tossed away his cigarette. “Give me your worst.”

“My worst…?” Nikola thought for a second and started to grin maliciously. “Oh, I have an idea.” She put a hand on her hip, “But first, I want a good reason for why you keep slipping away. Is it like earlier?” 

“No. That was… different,” Gunther answered hesitantly. He reached up, taking off his cap and revealing his blonde hair. “I know I said it didn’t bother me, but this is still my home. I never would have expected I would returned as a conqueror.”

“We are restoring order,” Nikola said flatly, intending to correct him.

“Oh, of course,” Gunther said with a hint of a snark. “Very good, Commissar Ludwig. I will remember that when I have to shoot people I went to school with.”

“Would you prefer they shoot us instead? Your hesitation puts us all in danger,” Nikola said, not exactly feeling sympathetic toward his internal struggle. “This is war. Fight or die. Stop overthinking things.”

Gunther cocked his head to one side, listening to her simplistic understanding of conflict. “I wish it was that simple–”

  
  
“Then let me make it simple for you, Gunther,” Nikola cut him off, making a fist. “If you cannot stomach the killing, Chiara and I will handle the extermination of these traitorous rats.” She giggled creepily, an unhinged look on her face. “Your only concern is sticking close to us and following our orders.” She met his nervous gaze with crazed twinkle in her eyes. “No more more excuses or wandering off. Do you understand me?”

Shifting anxiously, Gunther was not sure how to feel about his commander’s incredibly poor attempt at consoling. Yet part of him felt as though her words had an endearing quality; in his mind, the tall Nord knew full well he was in no position to condemn Nikola’s blood lust. Mustering a reassuring smile, he nodded slowly, “Loud and clear. I will follow you both to hell if I must.”

Satisfied with the answer, Nikola relaxed her fist and let her arm drop down to her side. “Good. We are depending on you.” With a malicious smirk she changed her tune, “As penance for skipping this briefing, I am ordering you to be Chiara’s new sparring partner.” 

Gunther seemed surprised by the punishment, but considering she might be lenient, he figured he should play along. Shakily he held up a hand and said, “You could just kill me instead.”

“Not a chance.” Nikola replied with a cat-like grin, clearly enjoying his reaction. “You are stuck with us.”

The crunching of snow caused them both to look over at the row of tents. As if on queue, Chiara rounded the corner, exclaiming, “Found you!”

“Chiara. What are you doing out here?” Nikola asked coldly. She assumed her partner got bored.

“Do not give me that look,” Chiara said, crossing her arms and glaring at her partner. “Those two idiots ended up getting into another fight right after you left.”

“And you did not think to stop Fedor?” Nikola sighed in exasperation. She was amazed that things fell apart so quickly in her absence. “Seriously, Chiara, is there anything in that skull of yours?”

Chiara’s eye twitched and she protested, “Hey, shut up! I did!” In a huff she clarified, “Actually, I did not have to do anything. Ulf knocked that stupid priest out in one punch.” Watching Nikola’s eyes widen, Chiara quickly added, “He is fine! It’s weird actually. They are acting like friends now.”

Coming over to the blonde girl’s side, Gunther said, “You sound surprised, boss. Isn’t that just what you two do?”

Chiara paused and shot him a toothy grin before pointing at her partner. “What? It’s not all. I hate her.”

“Hmm. You were the one who was blubbering because you thought something had happened to me,” Nikola said, crossing her arms and pushing her hip out slightly.

Gunther wasn’t sure of the context, but before he could ask, Chiara’s eyes narrowed, “Oh, my bad. Next time I will leave you.” The two stared at each other but almost instantly the situation diffused and they both started to smirk. “I am kidding, Nikola.” The violet-haired girl said, waving her hand. She then eyed the engineer. “I thought you were going to punish him?”

Still smirking, Nikola slapped his back with a suprising amount of force, and he muttered out a quiet _oof_. “But I am. He is your new training partner.”

Chiara saw the look of terror on the engineer’s face and started to smile. Cracking her neck, she taunted, “Oh, we are going to have so much fun, Gunther.”

“Boss… please go easy on me,” Gunther said, holding up both his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Do not be such a baby,” Chiara chided clearly excited with the idea. “Its important to brush up on the basics. Maybe you’ll even learn something.”

  
  
“Can I at least write my will first?” Gunther asked weakly. “I have a girlfriend, you know. She deserves some closure.”

“Later. Right now we have a mission,” Nikola said flatly, unsure what he was babbling about. “Besides, you should have thought about the consequences before wandering off.” She walked back toward the camp.

  
  
“Right, right,” Gunther mumbled, following after her, but not before Chiara slugged him once in the arm. “Ow.” He clutched his forearm and frowned at her.

  
  
“Hehe. Maybe a couple of bruises would be a better reminder,” she said, enjoying his intentionally exaggerated reaction.

  
  
“Geez. If you were that worried, you could have told me,” Gunther said cheekily before dodging her second swing.

  
  
“Worried! About you?” Chiara snickered, wearing a cat-liked grin. “Hardly. But just for that, I am not going to hold back.” She started to playfully nudge his arm with her spiked knuckles, causing him to pull away.

  
  
\--

Looking out through binoculars from the cupola of his Jubatas, Otto could see the entirety of the republican army’s first defensive line. There were two parallel and crudely dug-in trenches, with barbwire and a few anti-infantry emplacements. A dug-in minute tank, with sandbags layered on top of its armor, was the strongest point of the position. Given his numerical superiority, though, it would be easily destroyed.

Sliding back into tank, he picked up the radio receiver and switched to his platoon’s frequency. “Ulf, allow me to take the lead. I will leave the trenches to you.”

  
  
The radio crackled and Ulf’s voice bellowed from the receiver. “Bjorn is ready! We will feed the Earth tonight!”

Otto tapped his driver’s shoulder and changed his radio frequency to the one used by the tanks in his platoon, “Everyone. Once a breakthrough is achieved, do not stop until we reach the outskirts of Lowerholm!”

  
  
The numerous ragnite engines roared to life. Red banners of the Empire were raised, and the steel wave of loyalist tanks lurched forward, soon followed by a massive charge of foot soldiers. With Ulf in the lead, they let out a massive war cry, rushing down the snowy bank.  
  


-

Positioned on a bluff overlooking the battlefield, Nikola watched disinterestedly from the bed of the half-track. The opening of machine gunfire did little to excite her. It was not until Otto’s tanks crashed into the first line did she start to feel a familiar sensation of warmth fill her chest. An Imperial medium tank’s howitzer pointed upwards and fired off a mortar, which crashed down behind a sandbag, throwing the bodies of the men behind it in every direction. The view caused her to laugh with macabre enthusiasm.

She enjoyed the beauty of battle. Vibrant yellow, muted orange and crimson red stood out from the softer tones of blue ice and white snow. The intensity of the shades made Nikola look away a few times so her vision would clear. She had never known the world was so colorful; it left her with a comforting sense of completeness.

However, before she could really meditate on the sensation, Chiara stomped her foot and shouted out, “Get them! Kill those worms!” She held up her fist gleefully as the red Jubatas rotated its massive cannon toward the minute tank.

Nikola stopped herself from slugging her partner and cracked a smile as the republican tank burst into flames, its crew desperately climbing out from the metal coffin. A short burst from a machine gun, and they crumpled onto the snow. Laughter trickled up through her mouth. The look of joy on both girls’ faces was genuine.

Seated behind the girls, Gottfried looked at their backs warily. He leaned over and asked, “Were they like this before?”

  
  
Gunther stopped fiddling with the grenade in his hand and glanced over. “Pretty much. Don’t worry, you will get used to it.” Carefully he removed the fuse from the charge before gently unscrewing the stick. “Just don’t get in their way.”

Fedor leaned forward, putting both of his hands together. His right eye had a noticeable bruise from his earlier scrap with Ulf. “I know what you are thinking, Hans. But I doubt either of them pose any danger to our men.”

“Right,” Gottfried said unconvinced, shifting the shield on his back. “That is not my concern. What happens once we are in thick of it and our lives depend on their ability to react rationally?”

“Trust in Siegward’s cooler head to manage the situation,” Fedor said, staring at the bolts in the floor. His dull green eyes had a sadness lurking behind them. “Regardless, this is not Montigny. We are putting down a rebellion, not trying to win a war.”

Gottfried exhaled loudly, cracking the knuckles of his right hand. “It’s hardly any different. The poor choices of the few got a lot of men killed then, too.”

“Those fools were not there,” Fedor said, gripping his weapon hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “At least this time our dear leaders will die with us if things go south.”

  
  
“Come on now, guys,” Gunther said, cutting into the conversation. “Stop being so pessimistic. Our bosses are great. We are all going to make it.” The shake in his voice made it clear he did not believe his own words.

Chiara banged her fist on the top of the roof and spun around, “We are literally right here, morons!” Her outburst caused Gunther to almost drop the grenade in his hand before he had completely removed its pin.

“Easy, boy,” Gottfried said, shooting out a hand to help the engineer steady his grip. He looked over at Chiara, “I have my orders. I won’t question them. I just hope you both know the men in this unit have dreams for the future. This is their chance at redemption.”

  
  
Chiara stared at him before rolling her eyes, annoyed with being lectured. “Hmph. I get it, old man.”

“You act as though we intend to fail the Lord Commissar,” Nikola added still facing away, holding onto the vial of medicine in her pocket. Quietly, she mumbled under her breath, “This is our chance too.”

Glaring at Gottfried at first, Chiara’s dark eyes slowly drifted to the moundof grenades next to the engineer. “Gunther… what are you doing?”

  
  
Satisfied he had enough, Gunther pulled out some wire. “Making concentrated charges.” He proceeded to tie four of the heads upside down around the functional hand grenade in the center. “Want to help, boss?” he offered, hooking it to his belt. “They can create quite the mess.”

“Oh? How big of a mess are we talking?” Chiara asked, sitting down across from him, predictably interested in learning another way to kill a man.

“Are you serious?” Gottfried asked, eyeing her. He was surprised that a soldier in the Imperial Army would not have learned about the bundles already.

“What?” Chiara shot back defensively, “We were not issued standard grenades!”

“Of course not,” Gottfried said, not sure what he had expected. He looked over at Gunther who just shook his head, indicating it wasn’t worth questioning it.

Trying to keep his boss distracted, Gunther unhooked the last few grenades from his belt and gestured toward her. “Then it’s time to learn. You have small hands so it should be simple.”

Chiara watched intently. Once he was finished, she nodded confidently. “Let me.” He handed one to her and wordlessly she studied it. Just as he was going to explain the process, Chiara’s hands started to move, and in a flash the grenade was deactivated. “Heh. Too easy.”

Gunther’s eyes widened as she offered it back to him, smirking at his reaction. “Damn, boss. That is impressive.”

“Well, I am the best,” Chiara said trying to act like it was no effort at all. Wanting more praise, she added confidently, “Besides, it’s not much different than a landmine.”

Gunther replied as he worked at a different pace, “It is a different trigger mechanism, actually.” He nodded at her. “You are a fast learner is all. Even I am not that quick.”

Chiara looked away, not used to receiving such a direct compliment. “Why do you say such weird things? Explosives were my specialty.” She relaxed, though, and glanced back at him, watching wordlessly as he tied off another bundle.

Gunther held out the out the charge in her direction. “Now, the true test. How is the weight?”

Taking the stick, Chiara bounced it a few times and found herself surprised. “It’s heavy.”

“Too much?” Gunther asked watching out of the corner of his eye as Nikola came over.

  
  
She slid down next to Chiara, “She is a weakling, so it’s possible.” The blonde girl attempted to take the grenade from her partner. “Give it here, idiot.”

Not willing to give up her prize, Chiara pushed her back. “No, it’s mine! Get your own!”

“Let me see!” Nikola said, attempting to snatch it from her.

The two started to struggle over the explosive, and a nervous Gottfried said, “Why do I always get the feeling this squad is one wrong step from blowing up…?”

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Gunther said cheekily, pulling back the best he could, as if it would keep him out of the blast zone. At the very least, it might keep him from getting smacked in the face with the weapon.

The two girls fell onto the steel bed, wrestling for the explosive. Gottfried pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “That is certainly not what I would call it at all, Trofim.”

Just as Nikola had almost managed to wrench the explosive away from Chiara, Fedor shot to his feet. Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed it from the both of them. Holding out his arm, he tested the weight for himself and nodded, satisfied. “Not bad, Trofim. I will be sure to put it to good use.”

“Hey! That is mine!” Both girls yelled, hurriedly getting to their feet, suddenly united in their purpose. They then both locked eyes with each other and started shoving again.

“When you two decide whose it is, let me know. Until then,” Fedor said with a smirk, taking his seat again and holding the stick tightly in his hand.

Pushing Nikola down, Chiara advanced on the chaplain, but Gunther quickly held out a hand. “Come on, you two. We can make some more.” He looked from one girl to the other as Nikola came to her feet again. “I thought you two promised to cool it with fighting on missions.”

  
  
“She started it,” Chiara said in a huff, crossing her arms. She dropped back down across from the engineer.”

  
  
“It doesn’t really matter. I have plenty explosives to share,” Gunther said while rummaging in his bag. He was a little surprised that they both seemed to be listening to him at all. “If you’re interested in seeing what is left of someone after one of these goes off, you two will relax.”

  
  
Nikola rolled her eyes and let out a defiant _ugh_ at his attempt to diffuse the situation before sitting down, equally huffy. “Fine. If it gets you to shut up.”

The ambiance of battle provided less-than-ideal background noise to the crafting of charges. After another hour of Ulf’s infantry throwing themselves into the trench line, turning to hand to hand combat as their preferred method of fighting, the driver of the half-track punched the metal roof and said, “Commander Otto says the enemy is starting to withdraw.”

  
  
“It’s about time!” Nikola and Chiara exclaimed in unison, excitedly coming to the front together. The republican soldiers were starting to abandon their posts, and both girls could see Ulf in the center of the fighting directing his men.

Nikola stopped abruptly to hold up a hand toward the other half-tracks. “Kriegstochter, we are moving out!”

Siegward nodded and banged the top of his own vehicle before pointing to the commanders driving the other two. All four half-tracks advanced down the bluff into the havoc of battle, causing Chiara to yell out gleefully, “Run them down!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we get back into combat shenanigans. This was my first attempt at writing a larger-scale battle, but I think there was a lot I improved on in later parts.  
> On another note, as you could tell, this update is pretty late. COVID is a thing, and as a result, updates are going to be sporadic due to the editor's schedule. As for the author, a lack of schedule means I'll be getting plenty more content written.  
> Stay healthy, everyone, and thanks for reading.

Nearly a century ago, the Imperial Army marched into Lowerholm victorious. The city had been heavily damaged during the fighting, but contrary to Western propaganda, the Nords were embraced by the East European Imperial Alliance as equals. They made up a sizable ethnic minority within the autocratic state but enjoyed more privileges than most, even being allowed to keep their native language.

Despite the leniency, nationalist sentiments inevitably started to boil underneath the surface. Imperial personnel had a tendency to turn up dead, and many soldiers garrisoning the region regularly requested to be transferred elsewhere. Tensions came to a head when a small group, from the radical organization known as the Blue Rose, tossed an explosive into the car of the royal governor, killing him and his wife in the blast.

The Emperor’s patience finally ran out, and he ordered the region forcefully integrated into the Empire. Imperialization was ruthless: the Nordic language was suppressed, cultural gatherings were banned, and soon enough, the Crows took full control over all legal proceedings.

The reprisals only served to intensify resistance, and in the end, part of Lowerholm was destroyed to send a message—continued disobedience was unacceptable. The wound was fresh in the mind of the republicans, who put much of their efforts into fortifying the now-frontline city. The suburbs surrounding had been mined, while the two main roads crossing the city were covered in barbwire, tank traps, and crude blockades of rubble with the goal of greatly hindering any attacker’s advance. The republican forces could use the sewer systems and rooftops to easily maneuver around their enemies.

The defensive efforts were being spearheaded, not by a Nord, but by a man from the city of Hadleigh. A man named Oliver Hoyt was the leader of the Castledon Column, a group of veterans who had been dishonorably discharged for their choice to shoot Imperial prisoners of war during the start of Operation Northern Cross. A decision motivated out of a desire for revenge, against an enemy that had brought nothing but destruction to the peace-loving states of Europe. His thick, dark brown mutton chops and stern face gave him an air of the landed aristocracy that was still prominent on the isles.

Standing in front of the ruins of the former capital building, Oliver had a full view of the final defensive preparations. His thoughts were interrupted by an approaching blonde fair-skinned woman, one of the leaders of the Blue Rose. She stopped in front of him, and in his oddly high-pitched voice, he asked, “Has it begun, Vanja?”

Vanja adjusted the broadsword around her waist, a gift from one of the Imperial commanders she had killed during the initial revolt. “Of course. Imps are predictable. As expected, they are throwing everything into this attack.”

Oliver took a step down and stood next to her, putting both hands behind his back, “No doubt they are operating on a strict time table. Losing the North would be the death knell for the miserable state.”

Vanja shifted from one foot to the other, staring down at him. “You speak with arrogance, but I suggest you do not underestimate Major-General Halvard or Captain Ulf.” She offered a knowing smirk, “After all, your countrymen fled from them once before. Tell me, was the fury of the North chilling?”

Oliver grimaced at being reminded of the Federation’s humiliating defeat during the battle for Ostend. He regained his composure and said, “A primitive strategy of a primitive civilization. I hardly would consider the ability to throw men at an objective a strategic wonder.”

“And yet your Federation lost,” Vanja interjected, narrowing her eyes at him. She found his face insufferable to even look at. “The Empire may be on its knees, but desperation will make it act savagely.”

“I agree with Commander Vanja,” A voice from behind them caused Oliver to turn to his left; he saw Irving emerging from the ruins of the building that once served as the Nord Republic’s seat of government. Another figure cloaked in heavy black wool followed him silently, gripping tightly the large machine gun which hung loosely around their waist.

The specialist stopped at the top step and addressed Oliver. “I suggest you listen to her. This is her homeland.”

Vanja snorted at his words and crossed her arms. “Do not pretend the United States harbors any more respect for our national sovereignty than this old fool. At least we asked for the Federation’s assistance.”

Irving winced. He wasn’t sure what he expected; the Nords had been understandably hostile to his presence. The figure behind him grunted, but he was prepared with an answer. “We share a common foe, Commander Vanja.” He paused before declaring, “And we share a common ideal as well. That all nations should be free from the yoke of tyranny.”

Vanja scoffed, unimpressed by his bombastic assertion, and shook her head. “Easy to say when your country is the new dominant power in the world… Tell me then, Mr. Irving—what was the United States’ plan had we refused your _aid_?”

“Then we would have simply turned around,” Irving answered, blatantly lying through his teeth. He knew well enough that their orders had been to persuade the Nords by any means necessary.

“Hmph.” Vanja grunted.

Oliver spoke, hoping to diffuse the tension. “Friends, please. This is not the time to bicker. Our enemy is closing in. We must be prepared to greet them.”

“You are right. I must join my men,” Vanja said, deciding she would have to deal with the Vinnish specialist later.

Irving watched as she walked away, focusing on her blue armband, which denoted her as a member of the militia. “She doesn’t like me very much.”

His companion snorted, but remained silent. However, Oliver replied, “There is no place anymore for nations who wish to maintain their independence. The world has already been separated into three distinct spheres of influence. The Nords will inevitably be absorbed into one of them.” His prophetic words settled heavily on them. He concluded, watching the specialist, “If the Empire fails here, it too will have to find a camp to settle into.”

Irving gestured to his companion and the two the left, leaving Oliver alone on the steps. He stood there for a moment, reflecting on his plan for the battle ahead. Without idling any longer, he quickly made for the headquarters, from which he would be monitoring the progress of the battle.

-

Irving stood at the edge of the remains of an apartment building, looking curiously down at the winding alleyways and main street below, debating where to set up his ambush point. As he loaded three red shells into his shotgun he thought aloud, “I know you were itching to fight the wolf… But the sooner we reclaim the old man’s asset, the sooner we will be able to properly assist this frozen rock.” He turned to face his subordinate. “Perhaps I could convince you to hold off on challenging the wolf, Victoria?”

Victoria, a humanizing nickname for VK-0, more often than not found herself amazed by his complete willingness to flaunt regulations. She was selectively mute, so she only grunted in response as she checked her own ammunition. She considered briefly using the blue-tip ragnite rounds for her machine gun, but instead loaded a standard magazine and stared at him, prompting Irving to continue talking.

  
  


Irving added, exasperated, “I don’t care if McDonnell’s adjustment was successful or not. I doubt the bag of bones has any interested in helping these people. So, I tell you what…” He cracked a smile, placing his shotgun on his shoulder. “Help me spring a trap, and I will assure Claire your performance was above and beyond all expectations. Sound fair?”

  
  


VK grunted again, nodding once before taking out a small piece of paper and scratching a word onto it. Irving took it from her, and read: _Deal_. Still grinning he said, “Great. So here’s what I have in mind.”

-

A few more hours of calm settled in the chilly air, until the scream of artillery overhead shattered the silence. The self-propelled howitzers in Otto’s armored division began to rain explosives down on Lowerholm with impunity. Standing tall and shouting over the deafening noise, Ulf yelled, “I have informed my men that dying is unacceptable without at least killing five of our brothers or their allies!”

Nikola winced, wishing she had remembered to bring ear plugs as the cannon fired again. Once it fell silent, she said, “Seizing the dockyard is strategic location. Do not get distracted, Captain Ulf.” She was mimicking the language of Seigward, knowingly.

“Do not fret, little one. It will be ours before the sun rises,” Ulf responded, full of bluster and confidence as he looked out over the city.

The man’s choice in language made Nikola’s eye twitch. Chiara changed the topic and said to Otto, “We are assigning the FOE to your platoon. Use it well.” Neither girl was familiar with the Imperial Army’s doctrine regarding mechanized units, s they were better suited to fight on foot. The decision was made to hold the flame half-track in reserve, delegating it instead to pacify Lowerholm after the city had been secured.

Otto tugged on his mustache and looked over at the half-track, whose massive anti-tank gun stuck out comically over the drivers head. “I can certainly put a gun like that to good use.”

Returning the conversation to Ulf, Siegward pointed at a line of taller of buildings which ran parallel to the main street that cut straight through the city. “No doubt the enemy will be using those for cover. It will take me some time to secure each one.”

“I am confident you will succeed,” Nikola said emotionlessly, carefully sliding a bolt into her Dunkel.

He glanced at her, unsure if she was being genuine, but Chiara shattered the moment by raising a fist and adding, “Or else!”

Several hours passed before the last shell exploded into a black cloud somewhere in the center of the city. Once a the smoke began to clear, the Loyalist forces mounted their first assault. It wasn’t until the third wave of attacks that the Blue Rose’s militiamen began to buckle, and the Imperial troops were able to start flooding into Lowerholm admist heavy losses.

  
  


-

With Nikola and Chiara’s squad advancing down the main street, using their armored half-track as a transport, the job of securing the buildings fell to Siegward and his men. With Sorina in tow, the two of them stopped at the top of a rickety set of wooden stairs. Sorina paused, tightly holding her small side arm in both hands. Leaning against the wall next to the door frame, quietly she said, “Four men.” The gunfire from the rebels was crisp as they peppered the street below.

The rest of the black clad soldiers took their positions, ready to breach into the room. Siegward held up a hand and said confidently, “Allow me.” He pointed the tip of his long sword down, widening his stance slightly.

“Try not to get shot, your highness,” Sorina said glibly whilst double checking her magazine, watching him with amusement.

“No promises,” Siegward said, rushing into the room. He slammed his shoulder into the first militiaman, who was facing away. “Die, traitor!” he shouted as he brought his sword upward, slicing through the man’s stomach.

The three other scouts turned from the windows to face him, but were quickly dispatched by Sorina and the rest of their squad. She gestured disinterestedly to the next set of stairs, and the black-clad soldiers of Kriegstotcher began the ascent to the roof—or at least what was left of it, following the bombardment.

Sorina knelt down and searched one of the dead men. The sound of the half-track’s light machine gun could be heard from the street below, indicating Nikola and Chiara were pushing forward again. Quietly, she said, “I feel as though… our enemies wish to draw us in.”

Cracking glass beneath his boot, Siegward wiped his blade on his sleeve. “Prolonged urban combat erodes the morale of even the most prepared armies. No doubt there is a greater plan at work here.”

“Then we will simply have to burn the whole city to the ground,” Sorina said, rolling her neck as she stood back up. “The Lord of Crows was very clear… blood for blood. We must show Europe that to destroy the Empire, is to destroy itself.”

Siegward nodded, moving to the next flight of stairs. “Reprisals will begin once the city has been secured. Come on, let us hurry.” He sprinted after the rest of their men, leaving Sorina alone.

“Hmm.” She hesitated, glancing down at the dead men around her. She lingered briefly before following after the nobleman.

-

Amidst the crumbling buildings, pushing up the street toward an undefined goal, Nikola and Chiara found themselves surprised the half-track’s armor was so useful at stopping small arms’ fire. The gunner used short bursts to keep their path clear while Gunther and Fedor would occasionally pop up to shoot into nearby buildings. It was chaotic, but their push served as the spear of the loyalist forces.

Laughing gleefully, Chiara popped up and fired a bolt straight through the skull of a republican that had attempted to take cover in an alleyway as they passed. “How do you like that!” she screamed out before a strong arm pulled her back down.

Several bullets whizzed overhead and Gunther said, “Easy, boss. The rooftops are not clear yet.” He returned fire before ducking down once more behind the armor plating.

“Who cares? They won’t hit me!” Chiara shouted, thrilled to be back in the thick of combat. She slammed another bolt into her crossbow and aimed upward, firing a second shot off at a militaman leaning out of a window.

Saying a short prayer, Fedor pulled the pin on the grenade bundle in his hand and jumped, throwing it through the open doorway of a small shop. The explosion threw several bodies forward, and one was crushed underneath the vehicle’s track, prompting Nikola to poke her head up.

From their current position she could see a strong point a few feet ahead. The banner of the blue rose was waving from a flag pole, shielded by a wall of sandbags. Crouching back down, she looked at Gottfried. “We will disembark up ahead. You better put that shield to good use.”

The veteran grinned, punching his massive kite shield that depicting the Imperial coat of arms. “Do not take me for some second-rate soldier. Just give the order.”

Nikola gave a short nod before shouting at the driver to advance. The machine gunner opened up with another burst as the half-track lurched forward with a growl of its engine.

-

Crashing over the first line of sandbags, the driver stopped the vehicle. Gottfried leaped into action, hitting the ground as he brought up his shield. “Come on, then!” he shouted. Fedor quickly took cover behind the steel wall; Nikola, Chiara, and Gunther followed suit, using both the armored-tech and their transport for cover.

“Stay behind me. We will push when they reload,” Gottfried said, shifting his weight behind his kite shield to better brace it under fire.

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Gunther said, ducking behind the shield as a shocktrooper returned fire; the bullets pinged ineffectually off the steel wall.

“Screw that! Come on, Nikola. We will destroy them!” Chiara yelled, rushing around toward the enemy. She shrieked incoherently, firing off a bolt at the first man in her path. It pierced through his eye socket, and he collapsed backwards onto the ground.

“Chiara!” Nikola called out, startled by how quickly her partner had forgotten their discussion about recklessness. She glanced over at the rest of their squadmates and pursed her lips. “Fine.” Without warning, she too charged into the fray, throwing herself into combat with a muted passion.

"By the guiding light!” Fedor bellowed and unsheathed his bayonet, running after the commanders without hesitation.

Gottfried watched, unsuprised by the chaplain’s death drive. Realizing the engineer was still cowering, he leaned over and said, “Aren’t you suppose to keep up with those two?”

“Yeah, well… I am allergic to bullets,” Gunther said, knowing full well he was too weighted down to keep pace with the rest his comrades. He clapped a hand on the big man’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go!” Gottfried roared in response and lifted up his shield, and the two men sprinted straight into the chaos of combat.

-

The rooftop of the apartment building Siegward and Sorina had secured was connected to the building nextdoor by a two crudely-laid planks of wood. Republican soldiers had setup a firing line from which they had a clear view of the advancing Imperials. As Siegward stepped out onto the roof, one of his men took a bullet in the leg and fell onto the ground, groaning.

“You men!” Siegward shouted, pointing at two scouts as bullets whizzed by his head. “Clear that emplacement!” He dashed forward, sliding behind the stone wall which circled the square building. The two men mounted their rifle grenades and paused, waiting for the right moment. They launched them over the gap, aiming behind the enemy’s sandbags.

Panic was heard, followed by an explosion that flung several bodies and body parts forward in a gory spray. More desperate screams punctuated the chaos of the battle. It gave enough time for Sorina to set up her rifle, and with quite a few enemies downed, she began to mercilessly finish off the wounded men. One militiaman had been blinded by shrapnel, and as he groped around in terror, a bullet from the sniper tore through the side of his head.

She repositioned, mumbling to herself before taking another shot which ripped straight through an unfortunate man’s leg. Seeing the way was being cleared, Siegward motioned for two more soldiers to follow, and the three of them charged across the plank which creaked audibly under their combined weight.

As they took new cover behind the now-clear enemy position, the republicans rallied and attempted to push them off the edge of the building. Several smoke grenades were thrown, and Siegward squinted, adjusting the blade in his hand as the whole rooftop was obscured in a thick haze. From the right, one of his men was abruptly cut down and the nobleman changed his stance as his sword connected with another.

Siegward pushed his new opponent backwards and was surprised to see a woman with long, blonde hair. She wore a set Imperial armor with a hand-painted blue rose emblazoned on the chestplate. He held out his long sword and snidely said, “Careful, girl, that isn’t a rolling pin.”

Vanja’s broadsword was a thicker blade than his own, though shorter. Hearing his remark, she smirked and bit back, “Such arrogance… for a man who can barely handle his sword.” She kicked up dust and debris from the ground into his face, lunging forward. Half-blinded, Siegward still manged to block her sword, almost stumbling over the edge. In retaliation, he kneed her in the stomach, shoving her back.

Sorina was about to shoot the woman, but paused. She decided against intervening, finding the duel amusing.

-

Back on the street, Nikola shot a bolt through the chest of a militiaman who attempted to surrender. He writhed on the ground, and the girl watched with amusement as the light left the soldier’s eyes. “Ehehe… That looks painful.”

The rest of the Blue Rose was starting to withdraw further into the city, abandoning the strongpoint. Chiara pushed past her and screamed angrily, firing off an explosive bolt at the retreating men. The blast sent several limbs flying and she gleefully squealed, “Die! Die!”

“I think you got ‘em, boss,” Gunther said, holding on tightly to his rifle while scanning the rooftops. Seeing movement, he crouched down and shot off a few rounds. His bullets caused a puff of dust to fly off the edge of the building.

“You missed, idiot,” Chiara said, unimpressed with his tendency toward restraint. A few steps away, Fedor sprayed a magazine into the corpses of the dead men near his feet, causing a mist of red to billow up around him.

He reloaded and was readying to do it again, but Gottfried placed a hand on his shoulder. “Enough, comrade. Doesn’t Yggdism forbid the desecration of corpses?”

Fedor stared down at the ground angrily, balling up a fist before releasing it. He sighed. “It does…” He shook off the large man’s grip. Hearing the moans of the dying men dismembered by Chiara’s bolt, the priest removed a book from his tunic. “Excuse me. I must comfort the dying.”

With a strong arm, Gottfried held the chaplain in place. “Need I remind you this is far from over. Walk out there, and you are exposed.” He pushed his comrade back. “You can comfort the dying later. Right now, be on guard.”

Fedor glared at him; briefly it look like he would ignore the other man’s words. The priest finally relented. “Very well, Hans.” Taking his bayonet, he cut through the rope of the flag pole next to them, causing the symbol of the blue rose to flutter down onto the ground. Red blood slowly soaked through the vibrant blue cloth.

Nikola looked on emotionlessly, loading a new bolt into her Dunkel. Gunther, who was standing next to her, said, “Orders, boss.”

Her eyes flicked to him and she replied, “Hold. They are moving.” She was certain that there was movement in the buildings further down the street.

Nikola remained motionless, clutching her crossbow. Chiara had gleefully started to amuse herself by morbidly kicking around a bloodied chunk of flesh, no doubt a piece of someone’s organs. She said aloud, “I wish they would hurry. I was just getting warmed up.”

As if on queue a shot rang out, causing Nikola to instinctively drop to her stomach, shouting, “Counter-attack!” Gunther took cover behind the sandbags that were still standing and Chiara slid into next to him. Fedor remained in place, positioning himself behind Gottfried’s shield.

A cry was yelled out, “For the republic!” followed by a hail of bullets fired from the second floor of the building across the street. The machine-gunner returned fire from the half-track before a bullet pierced his forehead and the back of his head was gone. He slumped back down next to the driver, who reversed under prior orders to prioritize saving Kriegstotcher’s precious vehicles.

“Big mistake, losers!” Chiara screamed out, leaning out from the side of cover, aiming down the scope of her Dunkel. She waited for the muzzle flash before returning fire, though she squinted, unsure if she had hit anyone.

  
  


Gunther placed his gun atop the sandbag, firing blindly in the general direction of their attackers. Once finished, he said, “I think they have us outnumbered.” Before Chiara could answer, several burning bottles were tossed from the windows, cracking on the ground. A wave of fire covered the street.

In response she snarled, “That is not fair!” The burst of a heavy machine gun prevented her from rolling out again. She leaned close to the engineer to ensure she could be heard over the noise. “Which floor is it?”

Gunther grabbed a Gallian rifle from the ground next to his boot and tossed it up in the air over the sandbag. The machine gun sprayed the decoy in response, causing the rifle’s wooden stock to splinter. The Nord shouted back, “Roof!”

Nikola crawled on her stomach over to Fedor and Gottfried, standing up behind the shield. “Get Siegward on the line.” The bullets pinged ineffectually off steel wall, and Fedor returned fire by holding his machine pistol forward from cover. Once out of ammo, he started to fumble with the radio.

Chiara slammed a different experimental bolt into her crossbow’s flight groove, pulling back the string. Watching her nervously, Gunther said, “I can’t be held responsible if that explodes on us.”

“You better hope it does not!” Chiara shouted back, inching to the edge of the sandbag. “Do not miss, Gunther!”

He nodded, gripping his rifle tightly and waiting for her move. With a battle cry, Chiara leaped up, firing off the bolt into the center of the street. It exploded into a cloud of blueish-gray smoke, which blanketed the area in an even thicker smog. Seeing this, Gunther fired off half a magazine at the general direction of where the machine gun had been set up.

They both fell back down. Chiara peeked over the sandbag, but saw nothing past the fog. Breathlessly, Gunther said, “I think I got him.”

On the radio, Nikola yelled into the receiver, “Taking heavy fire on civic street! Requesting support!” While waiting for a response, the roar of a tank engine deafened the battle around them; down the street came an Imperial Medium tank, haphazardly painted blue to indicate it was under republican control. The tank crashed through one of the buildings, revealing itself.

“That is not good,” Gottfried said, bracing his foot against the ground as Fedor reloaded, waiting impatiently for his commander. The tank fired off a round, forcing Chiara and Gunther to dive backward as it exploded in front of their position.

Enraged, Chiara leaped gracefully back to her feet and declared, “I am going to destroy that hunk of junk!” She loaded a standard bolt which was capable of piercing the tank’s armor, and with suicidal zeal, sprinted straight at the advancing armored vehicle.

Seeing this, Nikola pursed her lips, “Tch.” It was the second time in a single battle her partner seemed more than enthusiastic to get herself killed. The intrusive vision of Chiara’s mangled body sunk into her mind. She gritted her teeth, barking at Gunther, “Take this!” Gunther ran over, and she shoved the receiver into his hand. “Tell them to do their job!”

He nodded, taking cover behind Gottfried shield. With newfound anger, Nikola loaded a smoke bolt and charged after Chiara. She shot it off, granting her comrade at least some cover from the rain of bullets which both girls seemed capable of avoiding thanks to their carefully trained agility.

“Scary…” Gunther said in awe as he brought the receiver to his ear.

The radio crackled, and Sorina’s wistful voice was heard. “I am here, Agent Graf.”

“Wow, Seigward, you sound different.” A explosion convinced him to drop the act; he quickly shouted, “How about some cover over here!” Fedor held out his machine pistol and fired blindly, trying to provide some extra cover fire.

-

Sorina moved to the edge the building, leaving Siegward to his duel. She calmly put her rifle down on the ledge. “Of course,” she said curtly and hung up the receiver. The ghostly woman gestured for the rest of the black clad soldiers to take up firing positions. Addressing the men, she said, “Kill them.”

-

Halfway to the tank, Chiara hit her stomach as its machine gun fired a burst in an attempt to kill the small girl. “Haha! Missed me!” she teased, taking aim at the driver’s vision port before pulling the trigger. The bolt flew forward, piercing straight through the lighter armor. She rolled to right, unsure if she had managed to kill the driver, though the tank remained still. She grabbed the bundled charge from her belt and cackled. “Have this!”

She threw it with all of her might and watched excitedly as it landed behind the front-mounted turret. A pair of hands roughly pulled her behind a mound of rubble. Chiara heard Nikola scream in her ear, “You promised!”

Before Chiara could respond, the charge exploded and, with it, the tank. The massive blast kicked up dust, blinding them both. Nikola repeated angrily slugging her partner’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, as the debris around them settled. “You said you would be less reckless, you moron! What were you thinking!”

Chiara sat there stunned, unsure what to make of her friend’s distress. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to respond; from the smoke and wreckage slowly walked a hooded figure. They stopped in the middle of street, bringing up their belt-fed machine gun.

“Oh, what now?” Nikola yelled in frustration. Their new enemy did not hesitate, firing a volley of bullets in their general direction with impressive recoil control. Nikola ducked down. Still mad at Chiara, she hissed, “I will knock you out later.”

Chiara’s eye twitched and she snarled back, “You can try.” The two girls stared daggers into each other for a moment, but both of them realized they had bigger problems at the moment than their animosity. Nikola loaded a poison bolt and nodded at Chiara who slid a barbed one into her crossbow.

Once the attacker paused, both girls jumped up in unison, firing together. To their shock, a blue shimmer halted both of their bolts, just short of hitting their target. Nikola’s eyes went wide. “Ah…”

“Time to go!” Chiara shouted, grabbing her partner’s arm. The two of them scrambled away in a desperate retreat from the valkyria.

VK stood there, adjusting the grip on her gun and watching the two girls retreat. She slowly walked forward, occasionally pausing to fire a burst from her hip.

-

Reaching the rest of their squad, Chiara barked one word. “Run!”

Seeing their commanders afraid for the first time was all they needed. Gunther, Gottfried and Fedor followed them, close on the girls’ heels.

The whole squad fell back and took a left, rushing into the safety of a nearby alleyway which cut off from the main road. Gottfried finally got out, “What?” as he tried to catch his breath. He was not used to retreating in battle, especially considering it went against Imperial Military Doctrine.

Nikola nervously tightened her hand on her Dunkel’s hilt. “Chiara?”

Chiara looked over at her and said, “You saw it too.” Their experience watching Selvaria and Crymaria’s fight had forever ingrained a healthy fear in both girls about dealing with the horrific women of myth.

Seeing the terror on their faces, Gunther muttered, “Bad news, then?” The sound of footsteps caused him to turn toward the alley’s entrance.

VK walked out into the open and stopped, making no moves to fire. Slowly, she removed her hood, revealing a short crop of washed-out pale hair, ruby red eyes and a black respirator that concealed half of her face.

Chiara took a step back and held up a fist. “What do you want!?”

Fedor brought up his machine pistol but stopped short of firing, feeling an odd sense of dread settle over him. VK did not respond; she grunted and reached down, pulling a steel canister from her belt. Regaining his nerve, the chaplain pulled the trigger upon seeing her intent. He froze as his bullets were stopped short by a blue light. In rapturous amazement, he fell to his knees and said, “That—That isn’t… possible.”

His moment of reverence was cut short as VK pulled the pin, dropping the canister. It hissed, releasing white gas into the air, and she silently turned to leave.

“Tear gas!” Gottfried shouted, grabbing Fedor by the collar and dragging the priest back. Nikola gagged as her eyes started to water. Chiara attempted to cover her mouth, and in a haggard mess the squad fell back further into the alley.

-

As her mark retreated, VK reached up to touch the radio receiver around her neck. She grunted three times into it.

Irving’s voice was on the other end. “Good work, Victoria. I will handle things from here.”

VK grunted one more time and cut off the connection. She took up a firing position at the other end of the street. Admittedly, she was a bit curious what was so special about McDonnell’s asset. However when it seemed as though the Imperials would not attempt to escape through the way they had entered, she stood up and headed toward the sounds of battle echoing out from the dockyard.

  
  


-

The alleyway ran perpendicular to the street they had just been on. After putting some distance between themselves and the valkyria, Chiara held up a hand, bringing the squad to a stop. Aside from some sporadic sounds of gunfire, the alleyway seemed removed from the rest of the combat raging around the city.

The silence gave the windy corridor an unsettling quality. The rest of the crew did their best to spread out a little, checking behind in case they were still being followed. After a few minutes of waiting in silence, Gottfried said, “Either of you want to tell us who or what that was?”

“Does it matter?” Chiara asked in return rather unhelpfully. Unlike X-0, she wasn’t really sure if the men of Kriegstotcher had been privy to the existence of valkyrian soldiers.

“I think so,” Gunther said, leaning against the wall to Gottfried’s right, still clutching his rifle. “If that soldier was dangerous enough for you two to run, then I’d like to know what we are dealing with.”

Nikola moved her cross bow from one hand to the other. “We were not running! Just repositioning.”

“Ah, I see,” Gunther said unconvinced, exchanging looks with Gottfried, who looked genuinely concerned by the change in tempo.

Fedor finally broke his reverent silence while gripping his rosary tightly. “A child of the… valkyur. Such beauty…”

Chiara’s eye twitched at his admiration, and she snorted, “They are not that beautiful. Most of them just like to complain.”

“Regardless, I would like to know what is trying to kill us,” Gottfried said, pulling his shield from the ground and rotating his shoulder a few times.

Nikola put a hand under her chin. “A valkyria.” When he looked back her with a bizarre look, she sighed as if it were obvious. “The important thing is… that fighting one is suicide.”

“Hear that, Gottfried? We can’t fight it,” Gunther said, finding her statement humorous. “Then tell me boss, what should we do?”

Nikola walked up behind the chaplain and pulled the receiver off of his radio. “We will need a lot more firepower.” She put it up to her ear, changing the frequency to Otto’s tank platoon. She waited a minute and said, “Commander Halvard.” No response. She pursed her lips.

“We need to move, Nikola,” Chiara said impatiently, growing antsy with being idle. “Lets regroup with Siegward.”

“Ugh,” Nikola hung up the receiver and turned. “Fine. We should avoid attracting any further attention.”

The squad formed up wordlessly again with Nikola and Chiara in the lead, followed closely by Gottfried, with Gunther and Fedor taking up the rear. They moved down the alleyway to see where it would exit into the city.

-

Directly in their path, Irving was putting the finishing touches on his trap. He had managed to liberate an Imperial Trooper’s armor from a small squad of scouts at the start of the battle. Adorned in the steel plate, he found it woefully uncomfortable as he positioned the rest of the bodies around the alleyway.

His only hope was that McDonnell’s asset would not look too closely as they were nothing more then stuffed practice dummies wearing whatever leftover armor the Republican forces had on hand. Once finished, he laid face down in the center of narrow street and took a deep breath.

  
  


-

As the squad rounded the corner, Chiara came to an abrupt halt and brought up her Dunkel. Quietly she said, “Rats. Did we miss a fight?”

“Strange. I do not remember any other units in the area,” Nikola whispered, bringing up her own weapon. She gestured once for the rest of their men to be on guard as they advanced. Gunther and Fedor moved to either side while Gottfried stayed planted in the middle. Ahead of them was a mass of bodies strung about the area.

There was no indication as to what had killed them, from what she could tell. Remembering Karl’s prophetic words, Nikola looked up instinctively, but she saw no movement from above. It was more than obvious they were walking into someone’s carefully placed trap.

“Could this be where the valkyria wanted us?” Gunther asked, stepping warily over one of the bodies in his way.

Chiara stopped and knelt down, examining the dead man leaned up against the wall. Her eyes widened and she said, “This is a dummy.”

A loud bang shattered the calm, followed by an anguished howl from Gottfried. Nikola whipped around to see a spray of blood as the armored tech’s right arm was torn from his body. The bone was poking through the exposed muscle, and his detached limb smoked at the end. The man collapsed onto the ground, clutching his stump as one of the bodies slowly jerked to its feet, holding a smoking gun.

“Gottfried!” Gunther yelled out, dropping everything to rush to their incapacitated comrade. He slid down, unconcerned about his close proximity to their new enemy.

Irving pulled the helmet from his head and coughed. “How the hell do you Imps see in those things?” Seeing movement to his right, he threw it full force at Fedor, who had raised his weapon, ready to kill.

The steel dome connected with Fedor’s face, giving enough time for Irving to grab the engineer’s collar, causing him to fumble with the ragnaid vial.

Chiara and Nikola stopped short of firing as Gunther was held between them and their new enemy. Irving smirked, pumping his shotgun and ejecting a red shell onto the ground, which blended nicely in the blood pooling around his boots.

Wide-eyed, Gunther struggled against his captor’s grip. Shakily he said, “O-Oi. I’m a medic.”

Irving snorted. “Pretty heavily armed to be a medic, Imp.” Still watching both girls closely, he pulled his shield back a step. “I am Specialist Theodore Irving, Vinnish Secret Service.”

Chiara’s eye twitched at his sudden politeness. She barked back, “Are we suppose to care?” She still had her crossbow trained on Gunther, much to his discomfort.

“Boss, please…” The engineer said, getting a sinking feeling his comrades would sooner shoot him along with the specialist.

Fedor shook his head, spitting blood out of his mouth. He brought his machine pistol up and snarled, “Die, you –”

This time it was Nikola who interrupted his shot, seeing the chaplain intended to kill both men. She yelled out, “Fedor! Hold your fire!” She knew it would be logical to shoot through Gunther to kill Irving, but she had already made an internal resolution that keeping their engineer alive was important to her own performance. Turning to her partner, she shot out a hand and jerked Chiara’s arm. “You will not.”

Chiara stared at her wide-eyed. “Eh? But Nikola!”

“No,” Nikola said flatly, tightening her grip and glaring blankly into her friend’s brown eyes. “I have the final say, remember?”

Chiara jerked away and grumbled under her breath. “Stupid … I wasn’t going to miss.” Irving stayed silent, watching bemusedly. He was somewhat surprised his choice in hostage had been so effective.

Fedor stopped shaking and glanced down, pained at his dying comrade. The otherwise brave man was breathing heavily and clutching his shoulder. Sweat glistened on his temple as blood shed from his arm. The priest chose his words carefully, gesturing to Gottfried and talking in a soft tone. “He needs medical attention. At least let me stop the bleeding.”

“You will not move,” Irving said, coarsely training his shotgun on the chaplain. “I only want to talk. Then you can patch up this…” He roughly pushed his boot into Gottfried, who groaned weakly.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Nikola fixated on the specialist. “You are not shooting. So what is it you want?” She gestured, trying to feign disinterest. “This is an overly elaborate trap to just talk.”

Irving adjusted his stance. He found it a little difficult to watch three people at once, even in such a crowded, narrow alleyway. He found her attempt at aloofness almost cute, smirking. “What can I say? I like to make a good first impression.” His humorous tone passed, and he became serious again, addressing the blonde girl specifically. “Nikola Graf, you are property of the United States. I am here to encourage you to come quietly.”

Nikola froze, silenced by her own confusion at his words. She remembered reading Lord Belgar’s writings discussing giving her away. She never expected the United States to be actively pursuing her.

“Well, too bad!” Chiara snarled in response, stepping between her partner and Irving. “We would never abandon the Empire!”

For a brief moment, Nikola wondered if this was real. Perhaps she had fallen asleep earlier. Her periwinkle eyes noticed movement, though, and she saw Chiara was tapping her finger against the quiver hanging on her left leg. Not a signal, but the motion did give Nikola an idea. Slowly, she put a hand on her own as she found her voice. “How do you know my name?”

Irving offered a partial shrug. “Classified. I was just sent to recover you.” He jerked the engineer around, who protested in response. Irving continued, “Come quietly and I won’t harm any more of your subordinates.”

“Screw that! She isn’t going anywhere,” Chiara responded, angrily shaking her fist at him. “Fight us fair and square! You coward!”

Her partner’s sudden desire to protect her was making her more unsure; if she weren’t in this situation, she may have found it touching. At the moment, it was only serving to make her heart twitch uncomfortably. Chiara’s penchant for being a distraction proved useful, though, as Nikola had managed to load a second of Gunther’s custom bolts without any notice.

She knew she would only get one chance to save the engineer. Nikola shouted, “Chiara! Duck!”

Chiara’s reaction was instant, hitting the ground before anyone else could react. Nikola fired from the hip, and the small bolt flew right between the legs of both men. She immediately turned her back to them, covering her ears.

Gunther’s eyes widened in realization as they both moved, and he said, “Oh… Oh no.” He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, praying he wouldn’t lose his hearing.

What the—?” Irving instinctively pulled back, releasing his prisoner as the narrow alley was lit up with a blinding white light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor's note this time: We're not dead! This chapter wound up getting split in half because it's very lengthy (the original document put it at around 18 pages), and I was feeling a little bad about getting it out on time. Gonna try getting the next half out in a week. Cheers!

Blinded by the flash, Irving swung out and shoved a dazed Gunther to the side. The Vinnish agent stumbled backwards, face scrunched up as he attempted uselessly to rub his eyes clear with one hand. Having found her opening, Nikola threw caution to the wind and spun around, leaping over her partner who still lay prone on the ground. The girl charged full-speed towards the specialist and aimed a swift kick under his kneecap, intending to knock him over.

“Ehehe, you like that?” she sneered, dodging low to avoid a swipe of his fist. When he did not collapse immediately, she unsheathed one of her knives and lunged at him, jamming the tip into his side.

Chiara’s eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment she remained motionless as the worst of the ringing in her ears subsided. She shook her head and swung her crossbow up, quickly taking aim. The flurry of arms made it difficult to get a clear shot, even with their engineer still laid out on the ground. She waited for her opening, finding it as Nikola pushed off of Irving, forcing him against the wall with a dull thud.

She took the shot. Upon hearing the distinct thwunk of her Dunkel, Irving jerked his head back, anticipating a killing shot. The bolt narrowly missed him, embedding itself into the wall of the building to his right. A less carefully trained reaction would’ve probably gotten him impaled in the eye socket—it was no lucky shot.

He blinked a few times, his vision finally clear. Nikola glared at her partner from behind the specialist. “Kill him… and say goodbye to your fingers.”

Chiara’s eye twitched; she gritted her teeth at being denied a possible kill. “Fine…” she grumbled, then leapt to her feet, attempting to pincer him between them both. Instead, he changed the tempo by grabbing Nikola’s arm as she tried to stab him in the back and twisted it sharply, causing her to yelp as something _popped_. She dropped her knife, and he roughly jerked her forward before putting his boot on her back, shoving her forward forcefully.

Irving watched smugly as the two girls crashed into each other in a sprawl, and amusedly he noted they looked not unlike two angry alley cats. “You know, I don’t actually enjoy hurting kids—shit!”

His quip was cut short by a burst from Fedor’s machine pistol, which forced Irving to jump back. He’d almost forgotten about the chaplain.

“Fedor! Hold your fire!” Nikola barked, cruelly digging her thumb into her partner’s cheek, frustrated at their lack of coordination.

Chiara’s response was predictable; she snapped her teeth at the other girl’s finger, hesitating on gripping the girl’s frizzy locks and yanking her off. Watching their discord in confusion, Irving paused and scratched the back of his head. “Is… is that normal?”

Fedor stared at him, his finger hovering over the trigger as he internally debated if it was worth following the order. “By the grace of the Almighty, I will…” His eyes darted downward in concern as he watched Gottfried groan and writhe weakly on the ground.

Fedor glanced over at Nikola, his eyes almost carrying a hint of pleading, but she coldly shook her head. He grumbled something obscene under his breath. Irving took a step back, realizing he wanted to put a little space between himself and his three opponents. “Listen, I uh—” He already had his exit planned out, and was just waiting for an opening.

Nikola staggered to her feet. Despite her earlier abuse, she offered Chiara a hand, pulling her up as well. The younger girl massaged her cheek and whined, “Niiikola… That really hurt.”

“Shush,” Nikola hissed coldly, breaking her focus by glancing over.

With her brief lapse in concentration, Irving had his chance. He brought up his gun and fired off a round at the two girls, forcing them to scatter to avoid the spread. He considered himself incredibly lucky they were both agile. Using it to his advantage, he crashed through the door of the apartment building on his right, disappearing from view entirely.

“Gah!” Nikola growled, sheathing her knife and chasing after him, determined to not a let him escape so easily.

“H–Hey!” Chiara stuttered, sliding a new bolt into her Dunkel and following suit. Fedor and Gunther were left alone in the alleyway.

The chaplain wasted no time scrambling over to Gottfried and dropping down. He tore off a piece of his tunic and shouted, “Trofim! How long are you planning on laying there? Get up!”

In the clear, Gunther’s eyes opened and he clamored to his feet before sliding over to the wounded man. He rummaged through his pack for ragnaid and bandages, saying, “Just trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

-

Irving dashed up the stairs that connected the first floor of the tenement to the second, with Nikola following close on his heels. Reaching the top, she stepped out into a long hallway, at the end of which she could see where the crumbling walls gave way to the outside, a light dusting of snow falling in.

Her prey was nowhere to be seen, but she was certain he was nearby. Nikola smirked, loading a poison bolt. She was going to ensure he answered her questions. The sound of glass cracking underneath her boot caused her eyes to dart down and she instinctively lurched to the right, taking cover in the open doorway leading into a demolished room.

She waited, listening, and for once she found herself regretting the fact her Dunkel was a single shot weapon. Concealed in the gloom of the hallway, Irving called out to her, “Good instincts. I suppose I can see the merits of your project.”

From his voice, Nikola could tell he was positioned behind a small break where a half wall separated the two parts of the building. She took a quick peek and asked, “Why does the United States want me?”

She had a sinking feeling her stomach, that she did not really want to know. Before Irving could respond, Chiara barreled up from the first floor. Her charge was cut short by the specialist, who upon hearing movement, fired a volley in her direction. She slid out of the way behind what looked to be the remains of a dresser. Overconfident as always, she taunted, “You really suck, you know?!”

Irving couldn’t help but smirk at her childish passion. “Tenacious kid. I will give you that.” He adjusted his leg, deciding it was time to switch his ammunition to something a little less deadly. Listening for movement, he carefully unloaded the red shells and replaced them with purple ones. He pulled a dummy grenade from his belt; it was no more dangerous than a rock, but like many of his strategies, he just needed his enemies to not study it too closely. Confident it would drive the girls into the open, he smirked and said, “Here. Catch!” Before tossing it over in their direction.

To his surprise, Nikola immediately shot out and kicked it back with all her might before yelling, “Now, Chiara!”

“Graaah!” Chiara screamed rushing out from cover, and the two of them charged down the hall at their prey.

-

The sound of honed metal clashing rang out as Vanja’s blade connected with Siegward’s. He pushed back against her sword, adjusting his footing and watching her carefully to judge her movements. “Your swordsmanship is sloppy.”

The Nord woman stepped to the right, adjusting her footing to match his own. She held out her broadsword and replied, “And yours is rigid.” She swung wide, and the nobleman stepped back to avoid her reach, putting more distance between the two of them. “Come on, Imp!” she called out. “What’s the matter?”

Siegward glanced over at Sorina, who seemed to be watching the duel with mild amusement and made no move to assist him. He sighed, swapping his sword to the other hand since his opponent appeared to be right-handed. “The code of chivalry prevents me from harming a woman,” he said rather blandly.

“Ah, chivalry, is it?” Vanja said in a mocking tone. She lunged forward, aiming for his gut. Just before the tip of her sword could pierce him, she was forced to redirect as he brought the hilt of his own sword down on her shoulder. She gasped at the blow, then jerked back. She paused only for a second to shake it off, then swung again.

Their swords clashed again, each time ringing out amidst the sounds of gunfire around them. Siegward tracked her movements carefully. Or at least, he thought—as he was aiming to block a lower swing, she caught his ankle with hers, and he fell against the cold roof. Without hesitation, she aimed for his head, but he curled inward and rolled to the left, just barely dodging. He leaped back up, and their swords caught once more. His brow furrowed; if he hadn’t been taking things particularly seriously before, he was now.

If there was one thing Siegward noticed put his enemy at a disadvantage, it was the stiffness of her motions. Vanja made to lunge toward his center, but he jumped back, and she attempted to push him closer to the edge of the roof. He raised an eyebrow but continued to watch her as their blades clashed. Her expression of determination would not remain, though. Her sword bounced against his and he took the opportunity to push back. One, two, three swift jabs in her direction knocked her back another foot, and as she attempted to regain her momentum, he caught her sword at the hilt and knocked it away.

Vanja’s sword clattered noisily to the ground, and they both froze as Siegward held her at the point of his blade. She stared at the Imperial with wide, icy eyes. “Enough,” Siegward announced, “This is farcical.” Yet he did not kill her. Rather, he stepped over calmly to the blade on the ground and kicked it back over to her. “Who taught you?”

Vanja didn’t break eye contact as she slowly knelt down to pick up her sword. “My father.”

“Was he a Cavalry officer, by any chance?” Siegward asked, standing still, watching her closely for movement. When Vanja did not respond, only returned his gaze with a blank expression, he shrugged. “Your stance—it is unbalanced. Are you unfamiliar with fighting on level ground?”

“It matters not, Imp,” Vanja said, a tight expression of something more hostile than annoyance on her face. The grip on her hilt tightened, and she circled to the left. “I will still kill you.”

“If you manage to defeat me with such a pathetic style,” Siegward said, crossing his sword with her own, “then I deserve to die a disgrace.”

Sorina, from her position, could only roll her eyes at his sentimentality. Growing tired of their now-pointless fight, she motioned for the rest of their soldiers to push past them both.

-

The reckless charge caught Irving off guard. He struggled to regain the initiative under the combined assault of Nikola and Chiara. Alone, it a challenge to keep pace with two radically different approaches to fighting; The russet girl was relentless and seemed unconcerned about her own well being, shrugging off blows if it meant inflicting another in kind, The other, paler girl held back, patiently waiting for him to be distracted before firing off a bolt. There was a synergy to the chaos, one that made Irving realize he needed to withdraw and consider a different approach.

In the dim hallway, Chiara cackled and jerked her crossbow to the left, causing the point of its bayonet to cut through the sleeve of his coat. Seeing a spattering of blood, she snickered, “Bleed! Ahahaha!”’

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Irving asked, mostly to himself. He lunged back while he swung his own weapon towards her to give himself some distance from the deranged kid; Chiara intended to dodge the swipe, but Irving changed his movement and brought the barrel of the rifle down on her head with full force. Chiara let out a startled cry and slammed face-first into the ground with a puff of dust.

“Die!” Chiara screeched, rolling over and lurching up. She was fast, but Irving was ready for her attack. He stomped his foot down on her leg, causing her gasp.

Irving pointed the barrel of his shotgun at her head, and watched as her brown eyes went wide. He paused suddenly, brow furrowing, then clicked his tongue and muttered, “…Damn it.”

“Hehe,” Nikola said, and he glanced over to see that she was inches behind him with her Dunkel pointed at his head. “Got you.”

At point blank range, there was no way she was going to miss. “Not bad at all,” he said. He kept his gun fixed on Chiara, who glared up at him angrily. “Well, then… What happens now?”

Nikola shot a nervous glance at her partner. She couldn’t afford to mess this up. With her finger hovering over the trigger of her crossbow, she asked, “How does the United States know about me?”

Irving sighed, exasperated. “Beats me. I’m just the fool who was sent to reclaim a lost asset.”

“So you are just a useless pawn?” Chiara chided, gripping her Dunkel tightly.

“We all have our orders.” Irving responded dryly. Though… looking down at her, he could not help but wonder what he was doing. He had signed up to take the fight to the Empire, and the present situation was a far cry from that.

“Stop dodging the question,” Nikola said with a crazed look in her eye, her finger hovering over the trigger.

Irving was motionless at first, but then he glanced back at her and said, “The Empire is riddled with leaks. My superiors were aware of X-0 before this war even started.” Keeping his weapon trained on Chiara, he inched a little to the left, trying to reposition himself into a more favorable position.

“That would mean you knew of Lord Belgar.” Nikola pressed further, matching his motions with incredible control over her own movements.

Hearing the name caused Irving to flinch, but he gave her a smirk. “How could I not? One of the foremost minds in the study of ragnite. He and Dr. Miller have done much to set the world’s course toward destruction.” His arrogant expression faded, “Pity. I heard he never made it out of Schwartzgrad.”

“Stop babbling!” Chiara growled. She scooted back, having come to the conclusion she would rather not be staring down the barrel of a gun. Especially one that looked like it would take her head clean off. “Just kill him, Nikola. He is not going to talk.”

Nikola hesitated. Standing on her tiptoes, she brought the tip of her Dunkel’s bayonet to the base of Irving’s neck. She pressed it into his skin, watching a small trickle of blood begin to ooze out. Wearing a blank expression, she muttered, “Feel that? Last chance.”

Irving winced and felt a warm trail running down his back. He sighed, reminding himself he was dealing with children, not adults. Considering how well trained they were, there was a small chance they’d grasp the bigger picture. “Look… You seem bright. Surely you can guess.”

Nikola pushed the tip of the blade further into his skin. “Lord Belgar told you about our project.” She shook her head and became insistent. “But that does not make any sense. Why would he?”

“Kid. Sometimes a man has to bargain with whatever he has left to save his own hide.” Irving said, exhausted with trying to spell it out. He used his boot to kick Chiara’s own. “Though, no one mentioned that there were two of you until recently.”

“Sorry to have made your job so much more complicated,” Chiara bit back, making a fist. She was getting sick of being viewed as nothing more than an inconvenience.

“On the contrary,” Irving said, shifting his posture, the small movement leaving him feeling another trickle of blood run down his neck. He brought his weapon up, causing her to make a small squeak. “I think you have saved my life.” Putting his finger on the trigger, he spoke softly, “Listen, Nikola. How about you lower that primitive piece of junk and I won’t kill… Chiara, was it?”

“Screw you,” Chiara muttered, but her eyes darted nervously to her partner. Yet, instead of pleading she snarled, “Shoot him.”

A tense silence followed as Nikola debated if a bolt, even one fired at such close range, would pierce Irving’s skull before he had time to pull the trigger. “How do I know you will not just shoot her anyway?”

“Nikola!” Chiara protested.

“Because my orders were very specific,” Irving said disinterestedly, deciding he had some things to think about. “Reclaim ‘Nikola Graf’… Let no one stop you.” He looked down at Chiara, matching her hostile glare with a judgmental pity. “Killing those in my way is just one way to go about it. Lower your weapon and we can settle this without anymore senseless violence.”

“No dice,” Nikola said, choosing to call his bluff.

She put her finger on the trigger and Irving snorted in response. “Strange. I figured you two were close.” In a quick motion he jerked his neck, pulling it free from the bayonet and ruthlessly stomped down on Chiara’s shin, earning a startled yell in response.

The pained noise broke Nikola’s concentration; in her panic, she stopped short of shooting. Her moment of pause allowed Irving to whip around and punch her in the side of the head. She stumbled to the right, losing her footing, and he followed up with a heavy kick in the side of her leg, knocking her off balance.

He then brought up his shotgun and took aim at Nikola. Just as he pulled the trigger, an enraged Chiara slashed at the back of his leg with her knife, causing him to dance away the avoid the erratic swipes.

The blast hit Nikola in the side before she could fully dodge the spread. She slammed into the wall and groaned. Irving was about to grab her by the collar and drag her with him when Chiara flung herself onto his back, screeching like a banshee.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed as she clawed at him. A swipe caught him in the cheek and drew blood. Completely berserk, Chiara chomped down on the exposed part of his neck. With her sharp teeth embedded in his flesh, Irving groaned and attempted to shake her free. “What is wrong with you?!”

In order to get her off, he resorted to slamming backwards into the wall, kicking up a cloud of dust. In between motions, she managed to stab him once in the side with her free hand. Forcefully, he slammed back a third time into the wall. She finally let go, though not before ripping a chunk of flesh off in a spray of blood.

Irving clamored away, gripping his neck. He saw another spurt of red and grunted. Looking over at Nikola, he could tell she was in no state to resist from where she was, laying on the ground and clutching her side. The only problem now was, his only advantage was gone; Chiara was already back on her feet, twitching crazily with a bolt in one hand and knife in the other. Her Dunkel lay abandoned on the ground between him—her intent was obvious.

Knowing he had nothing left to win this fight, Irving did the one thing that came natural: he turned around, staggering down the hallway. He heard an enraged scream and, “Get back here you worthless coward!” A distinct thump of her weapon followed, along with a searing pain in his lower leg. He ignored it, though, throwing himself into the cover of a room and disappearing from view.

Chiara stared at the spot he had once been, expecting him to come back into view. Instead, the sound of breaking glass gave her a different answer. He had chosen to flee the scene entirely rather than fight fairly. She stood there, confused and pissed off, the taste of blood still sharp in her mouth. Then she froze and rushed over to Nikola, who was curled up on the disgusting floor.

“Where!?” Chiara exclaimed, genuinely panicked that her partner might have been mortally wounded. She frantically searched for an entry point for a bullet, her prodding earning an annoyed groan. She pushed away Nikola’s hand to see the part of her side she was clutching, only to find there was not blood at all. Underneath the knit top was a dark purple bruise. Chiara paused as it dawned on her. “Capture, not kill…” She then looked over next to her comrade to see a small, fist-sized bag on the ground. She poked it curiously, and when her finger sunk into it, sighed in relief. “Non-lethal…”

Nikola groaned and mumbled something under her breath. Chiara leaned in closer to hear it. In a weak, yet condescending tone, she muttered, “You let him escape, you idiot.”

Chiara stopped moving and her eyebrows furrowed. “Oh…” With a malicious grin she playfully poked the bruise, causing Nikola to writhe and grit her teeth. “I am sorry, who got shot? I thought you were something special?”

“Try that again,” Nikola said between breaths, “and you will regret it.”

“Okay!” Chiara said, excitedly jamming her finger back into the bruise, causing Nikola to jerk away.

With a gasp, she cried, “It was a joke! I was joking.”

Chiara gave a sadistic giggle and one more cruel thump, causing Nikola to hiss weakly. Satisfied with her partner’s anguish, she leaned back, trying to collect herself. When Nikola did not move, she felt a twinge of guilt. Trying to come off as unconcerned, she asked, “Are you okay?”

Nikola didn’t respond, instead gently laying her hand on her side to test if any of her ribs might have been broken. She couldn’t be sure, though, so she gritted her teeth and slowly uncurled into a sitting position. “Yeah… I am fine.”

Chiara was unconvinced, menacingly jutting her finger out again. Nikola jerked away almost immediately, and she retracted the offending digit. “Gunther has ragnaid. It should help.”

At the mention of a painkiller, Nikola became hesitant. She shook her head and said, “No. This is nothing.”

The other girl could already tell that nothing she might say would convince her partner otherwise. She sighed, standing up and dusting off her uniform. “Fine. Just do not expect me to carry you again.”

Nikola looked up at her and mustered her best condescending tone. “And let you have the satisfaction of not being totally useless? I think not.”

Chiara grinned and stepped back. “Well, go on then. Get up.”

Nikola, a bit put-off by being left to herself, hesitated for a moment. She took a deep breath, counting in her head through the motions of getting up. She staggered to her feet, using the wall as support; to her credit, she only had to grit her teeth twice. Hunched over slightly and face pallid, she couldn’t contain the pained scowl on her face. “See? It’s nothing.”

Chiara stared at her for a moment before rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Here,” she said, nudging Nikola’s Dunkel over with her foot.

Nikola grunted and leaned over to grab it. She would’ve denied any accusation that she might have been breaking a sweat. The Dunkel safely in her possession seemed to assuage some of her stress, and she attempted to straighten up. “What do you bet the big lug died?”

“Considering he was gushing like a fountain? No doubt about it,” Chiara replied, leaning her crossbow against her shoulder. She slowed her pace to match Nikola’s, and added, “Those other two better have a good excuse for not helping.”

\--

As the more experienced swordsman, Siegward found himself impressed with Vanja’s sharp mind. She had managed not once, but twice, to pierce his leather armor with the tip of her sword. His amusement was beginning to fade, though, and with Sorina moving forward, it was time to wrap things up.

With one arm tucked behind his back, he backed her towards the edge of the roof and it seems she hadn’t noticed until the heel of her boot met the half-wall at the edge. Her brow furrowed, and Siegward could already see the thought forming in her head.

Before she could attempt another fake-out, Siegward jumped to the side and twisted the sword lunging toward his left, pinning her blade against the wall. In the same moment, he tugged a dagger out from his belt and sliced at her arm, slicing cleanly into her bicep. Blood speckled the stone behind her, and she gasped and dropped her sword. Siegward planted his boot down on it, then held his own sword against her throat. “You know, this has been fun. We should do it again.”

Vanja stared at him, clutching her arm, and an expression of disgust appeared on her face. “Well go on then, Imp. I will not beg for mercy from the likes of you.”

Siegward remained still. He found himself unwilling to kill her—not out of sympathy to her or her cause. Perhaps it was out of admiration for his old instructor, who instilled the belief that killing an unarmed opponent brought no honor.

Without warning a shot rang out, ending his internal debate. Siegward watched, stunned, as Vanja’s head was blown open and a spray of red splattered against the wall of the roof as well as his face. He flinched, the smell of blood and gunpowder burning his nose, as her body crumpled lifelessly to the ground, quickly pooling blood around his boots.

The sound of footsteps caused him to look over; unsurprisingly, Sorina was slowly walking toward him. The tip of her rifle barrel was still smoking. Upon reaching him, she stopped. “We were chosen by the… Lord of Crows… to carry out his will.”

Siegward found her religious invocation of the superstitious label discomforting. Avoiding her gaze, he drew a handkerchief from his tunic pocket and shakily wiped the blood from his face. “You are correct. Forgive my lapse in judgment.”

He pocketed the tissue and wiped the blood off his sword with his sleeve, sheathing it back into his belt. Sorina stared at him eerily, tilting her head to one side. “Mercy only prolongs suffering. Hesitation creates false hope.”

“Right, of course. You don’t have to lecture me,” he replied, then leaned over to pick up Vanja’s blade, intending to keep it for no other reason than admiration of her spirit.

“Hmm. Perhaps I should, though,” Sorina said, allowing a knowing smirk to crawl across her thin lips. Her smug attitude vanished, and she looked away, befuddled. “What is this… sudden emptiness.” She sighed quietly and motioned with her head. “We must fall back and reestablish contact with Squad One.”

Siegward raised his eyebrow and was about to ask her what was wrong, but he was caught off-guard when Sorina’s fingers brushed his short ponytail. He froze, then heard her say, “Looks like your sparring partner gave you a haircut.” Then she was rushing off towards the rest of their men. He reached up and touched his hair—sure enough, he was missing an inch off the tip of his hair. He refrained from looking down, only turning to follow Sorina. His boots made a wet, squishing noise as he walked back towards the other men.


	6. Chapter 6

Nikola and Chiara emerged back into the shade of the narrow alleyway, meeting once more with a grisly, yet all-too-familiar scene of battle. Gottfried still remained on the cobblestone ground, a pool of blood encircling him. His familiar rosy cheeks were colorless, and the once-noble knightly man had been reduced to a freezing cadaver on the cold, uncaring stone.

Fedor’s knees were soaked in red, the fabric beginning to visibly stiffen in the cold. He sat next to his comrade, gripping the man’s hand gently. He mumbled quietly, purposefully, offering up a prayer that was different from the one typically reserved for a dying enemy. His prayer was spoken with tenderness, care taken to ensure every verse was said properly to guarantee the very Valkyur the chaplain held above all else would surely receive this fallen soldier as a warrior with a spirit of indomitable iron.

Crouched opposite of him was Gunther, paying his own respects. He knelt just outside of the blood pool, though his shins were stained just the same as Fedor’s. He nursed a cigarette with a shaky hand, engrossed in the melody of Fedor’s prayer while a golden coin danced between his fingers.

Not particularly interested in the ceremony taking place, Chiara audibly cleared her throat, interrupting the prayer. “Thank you for all the help. Seriously, it is not like we needed support.”

Her callousness made Gunther look up at her. He answered with a finger over his mouth, requesting a little more quiet for the priest. Of course, neither girl appreciated being told to be quiet; Nikola, despite her haggard state, barked out, “Stop this nonsense! The death of a single soldier is not an excuse to forsake your duty!”

She couldn’t see the chaplain’s face, but whatever expression he made seemed to worry Gunther. The engineer put down the stone and jumped to his feet. “Easy, boss—we assumed you both had things under control.” Desperate to change the subject, he squinted at the blood trail that was making its way down her temple as a result of Irving’s blow. He tugged out a clean rag from his pocket, trying not to get any of the blood on his own hands on it.”Here. Let’s get you patched up.”

Nikola stared at him blankly, but slowly nodded without a word. Chiara opened her mouth to protest, but gave up as Nikola took the rag and wiped off her face. In the interest of not disturbing Fedor, Gunther set about tending to their wounds. It was mostly small cuts, but there was a particularly nasty gash on the back of Chiara’s arm that required a bit of attention.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warned. He wet a corner of a rag with some alcohol, then eased it onto the torn patch of skin.

Chiara gritted her teeth and scowled. “Can you hurry up? If we sit around too long, we will miss all the fighting.”

Gunther sighed, finding her spirit endearing if not concerning, “Relax. There will be plenty of battle left.” He looked over at Nikola who was still holding her side wearing a grimace, and said. “I have some ragnaid in my bag, boss. It should help with the discomfort.”

Nikola remained still; whether out of pride or some other reason, she made no moves for his pack. Instead she chewed on the inside of her cheek, distracting herself by thinking over the earlier fight.

Fedor finished his prayer by gently closing Gottfried’s eyes. “Goodnight, my brother. Your duty has ended, and your rest is well-earned.” He then picked up Gunther’s coin and placed it into the deceased man’s open palm. “This is what Trofim promised you.” The chaplain stood up and turned to face the other three. Holding his machine pistol by his leg, he walked over and scornfully asked, “When were you corrupt wretches planning to tell us the truth?”

Nikola tensed at his language. “Excuse me?”

Chiara remained silent, glaring at him while Gunther finished wrapping up her arm. Fedor, unusually restrained, responded in a calm voice. “Hans is dead because of you. I have no doubt, twisted minds like your own have no qualms with the death of such an honorable man.”

“Well, he should have watched his step,” Nikola bit back arrogantly, unsure of what kind of response he was expecting from her. She wanted to shrug, but a jolt of pain from her side stopped her. “That is just how battle goes. One mistake and you die. We never guaranteed everyone would survive.”

“A little positivity never hurt anyone,” Gunther chimed in, finished with the bandaging. He moved over to Nikola, nudging her elbow for her to lift her arm so he could check her side.

Fedor found little humor in the statement. Nikola tried to keep still while the engineer was prodding at her side, but she still hissed at him when he touched her side. The chaplain directed his gaze at Gunther. “So you can just accept their poison tongue, Trofim? That the United States suddenly appearing was unexpected? A blasphemer masquerading as divinity is just something you are willing to ignore?”

“Looked real enough to me,” Gunther said quietly, regretting having said anything. He focused his attention on his commander’s bruise.

“Hey, stupid priest. This might be hard to believe, but we did not plan to get attacked,” Chiara said, crossing her arms. “Did you forget? That asshole was looking for Nikola.”

“And I can’t help but wonder why,” Fedor said curtly, pointing at the straw dummies Irving had used to cover his own ambush. “Quite the elaborate setup for one girl.” His eyes snapped back to Nikola. “But then again, you certainly knew a lot about that false goddess.”

Nikola’s expression was as devoid of any emotion as usual, but internally she was trying to make heads or tails of his extrapolation. Monotone, she said, “We managed a Valkyria back when we were part of the Science Division. If you do not believe me, take it up with Commissar Ludwig.” It felt odd being honest about their past with someone who was not already aware of it like Karl, but she assumed it was the only way to address his ridiculous accusation. “And allow me to be clear, since you are obviously mentally deficient—I do not know why the United States is trying to kidnap me.” She gestured with her free arm to the injury on her side and said, “Does this look self-inflicted, you dolt?”

Fedor stared at her and then silently turned away. He walked over to the Imperial helmet that Irving had been wearing, and in a burst of anger, kicked it. It clanged against the stone wall and bounced down the street. Livid, he muttered something under his breath, which she chose to ignore.

Speaking softly, Gunther said, “Good news, at least. Your ribs are still intact.” He reached over, removing a blue canister from his bag, and offered it to her. “Though I am impressed you are still conscious.”

Nikola eyed the ragnaid uneasily and shook her head. “If nothing is broken, then I can still fight.” When he did not retract his hand, she glared at him. “I am fine, Gunther.” He seemed worried but returned the vial to his pocket.

Having relaxed a little, Fedor took a deep breath and turned back around. “Did you kill him?”

“I tore a chunk of his skin off!” Chiara declared happily, grinning to reveal the blood still on her teeth. She giggled remembering Irving’s pained cry, “There was so much blood.”

“Nice one, boss,” Gunther said, flashing a quick thumbs up, once again reminded why he was glad they were on his side.

Fedor was less impressed with her pride, and instead directed the question again at Nikola. “Is that a no?”

Nikola sighed and massaged her right arm, preparing to be lectured again. “He got away.” She kicked the ground in frustration and grumbled, “If we had help—“

“No one deserves to die alone,” Fedor interrupted her, cutting short her complaint. “Especially not my comrades. If it is their time to depart this world, then it is my job to ensure they do so unafraid without regrets. That is my penance.”

There was a hint of sadness in his voice; the priest seemed very tired. However, his point was missed on someone like Nikola. She only sighed and said, “Fine, whatever. Then you have no right to accuse us of some elaborate conspiracy.”

Chiara nodded hastily, coming to Nikola’s side. “Yeah! He got lucky is all!” She raised a fist, eyes glittering with rage. “Next time, let’s make sure he regrets screwing with us!”

Fedor was less than enthusiastic, but it was Gunther who voiced his concern first. As he stepped back over to Gottfried’s body, he said, “Forgive me, boss, if I am not excited about trying to take on a man whose ally is something you explicitly said cannot die.” In an odd move, he dropped down and rummaged through the armored tech’s pants pocket.

“Do you have no respect for the dead?” Fedor demanded whilst raising his weapon, incensed by the engineer’s perceived grave robbing.

Gunther pulled out a small, engraved silver locket and held it up by its chain. “Relax. Cecilia should have something of her husband to bury.” He stuck it in his pocket and stood back up. “I mean, there won’t be a stone with any of our names on it if we die here.”

Fedor lowered his weapon, finding himself in agreement with the gesture. Adding onto the engineer’s concern he said, “Agents. I retract my accusation… but I expect you both to come up with a way to avenge Hans.”

“Then we need to update the rest of Kriegstotcher. Especially if we are going to challenge a valkyria…” Nikola said, falling back into her role as squad leader, although she did not have the slightest idea on how to approach their present obstacle. She leaned over and asked her partner, “How far back is the rendezvous point?”

Before the battle, Siegward and Otto had come up with several fall back position in case retreat was necessary. Chiara gestured vaguely in the direction they had come, “Not very.”

“Then we are moving,” Nikola said, at first intending to take the lead, but the aching in her side made it difficult. She let Fedor and Chiara move to the front while she limped behind the rest of the party.

-

Backtracking was a slow process, especially since Nikola’s pride made it impossible for her to admit that she could hardly breathe without biting down on her tongue to keep quiet from the pain. At first the squad tried to match her pace, but eventually it was obvious she was never going to ask for help. Gunther dropped back and once again offered her the ragnaid. This time, though, he tried to be as discreet as possible. “Seriously, what good am I if my boss is content to kill herself?”

Nikola glanced down at the canister in his hand, but instead of taking it, she briefly considered the small amount of Belgar’s medicine burning a hole in her pocket. The tablets would be just as good at erasing the sharp pain in her side with the added benefit of stopping any intrusive thoughts from being dredged up.

However, the choice was made for her when Chiara sighed and looked back. “You are already slowing us down. Just use it already.”

Her harsh words cut deep; Nikola winced, knowing it was true. She clicked her tongue and gingerly plucked the small glass canister from Gunther’s hand. She took a deep breath, nervously studying it. She paused, shut her eyes, and quickly twisted the release, instantly relaxing as the soothing blue light bathed her small form.

“See? Not so bad,” Gunther said, adjusting his pack and warily checking behind them to make sure they were not being followed.

In the lead, Fedor held up his hand right before they stepped out onto the street. He poked his head out and took a look around. An Imperial Medium tank roared nearby with a squad of loyalists riding on the back of its hull using it is a transport. It was unclear where they were headed, but at the very least confirmed the front had advanced further into the city.

-

Once safe from the enemy, the driver of Squad One’s half-track backed it in between two crumbling buildings which had been utterly destroyed during the initial bombardment of the city. From his new position, he radioed an update to Siegward and Sorina, informing them of the current situation.

When Nikola and Chiara reached the fallback point, they were greeted by a handful of other members of Kriegstotcher who were spread about the area. Rubble, broken glass, and all kinds of other debris were strewn about; yet, despite being so close to the battle raging within the city, things seemed calm. As they approached Siegward, who was talking to Sorina near the half-track, Nikola’s eye was drawn up by a slight motion.

Dangling from one of the broken windows was a Nordic man, hung by his neck with bulging eyes and swollen, purple skin, and on his arm was a blue rose. Upon reaching Siegward, she nodded her head toward the grisly display. “Nice work.”

Siegward turned, and it seemed like it was his first time noticing the man at all. He shrugged. “Huh… I cannot take any credit for that.”

“The desire for revenge is often hard to ignore. The senseless brutality of war infects even the most noble of souls,” Sorina said ominously, leaning over to stare at the body. She seemed taken aback when she glanced at Nikola, and her eyes narrowed. “Gottfried… is gone?”

“For such a big shield he did not—” Chiara started to speak, but was cut off.

Nikola cleared her throat and answered, “Dead. We were ambushed.” Fedor wordlessly pushed passed them all. He dropped the broken radio onto the ground in front of the half-track before climbing into the back. It was unclear if he was praying, or already growing impatient with the lack of action.

For once, Siegward’s arrogance was absent. He stepped back, begrieved at the loss of a comrade he held in high regard. He rested a hand on his sword. Nikola raised an eyebrow, seeing there was now a second blade tied around his waist. Matching her own empty stare, he said, “I find it hard to believe mere Nords would be able to fell him. What happened?”

Feigning offense, Gunther placed his hand on his chest. “Aw, Seig. Us Nords may be simple, but that doesn’t mean we can’t shoot straight. Otherwise, I doubt any of us would be here.”

“Be quiet, Gunther,” Chiara said, rolling her eyes at his attempt at brevity. She crossed her arms and glared at the nobleman. “Besides, they had nothing to do with it. The United States has operatives in the area.”

“You can thank the one we encountered for killing Gottfried,” Nikola added, watching to see how they would react.

Both Sorina and Siegward seemed shocked by the news, falling silent. Eventually the nobleman nodded and said, “Its about time they made a move. Tell me everything.”

-

In the shade of the building Nikola calmly went over their encounter, including the Valkyria and the specialist. When she fell silent explaining Irving’s expressed purpose, Chiara took over. While she did, Gunther took a seat on the passenger side of the half-track to share a smoke with the driver. He decided to use the time to see if he could fix the damaged radio.

Once they had both finished explaining what happened, Siegward rested his hand on the second sword now attached to his belt and said, “Well, that is certainly unexpected.”

Leaning against the stone wall, Chiara snorted. “No kidding, Captain Obvious.” Mockingly, she repeated the specialist’s name,, “ _Thedore Irving_ … Who the hell does he think he is?”

“At least he is flamboyant. That makes it easy to guess his next move,” Sorina said, pacing methodically, counting the cracks in the road beneath her foot. She paused and looked at Nikola. “It goes without saying, you should be on guard.”

The blonde girl did not respond, only anxiously tapped her foot. Siegward shook his head. “Still, the commander cannot be the only reason the United States is suddenly involving itself. Confrontation endangers whatever they are pursuing in that ruin.”

“Unless they are already finished and trying to wrap up some loose ends,” Sorina pointed out. Talking to herself, she mumbled, “But to attack alone… I guess it is possible he’s acting of his own volition.”

“Let’s put a pin in that for now, considering we have other concerns,” Siegward said, picking up on Nikola’s discomfort with the topic. He figured she could handle herself if challenged again. Holding up his hand, he said, “Okay. Tell me about the valkyria.” Unlike Sorina, who seemed completely disinterested, he had a curious glint in his eye.

“I assume you know they are descendants of the Valkyur,” Chiara said reciting the history she had picked up from Belgar’s inane muttering during trips to various ruins, unsure how much the nobleman actually knew.

Siegward shrugged and answered vaguely, “Let’s say you hear things when working with Commissars. Bits and pieces.”

“Hah. You don’t need to work with Crows to know the stories,” Sorina said creepily, yet her face remained emotionless, concealing her feelings. “Descendants of monsters… behave as monsters.”

Chiara nodded and leaned against the wall. “Then you know what those annoying women are capable of. Bullets just piss them off. Not to mention…” She trailed off, making a gesture of an explosion with her hands. “It’s impossible to know if this one will not just turn this shitty city into a crater.”

Nikola shuddered, feeling a creeping chill graze across her back. While it was impossible to tell how she felt, watching Valkyria trials with Lord Belgar always made her anxious. Such power was incomprehensible to witness first hand and often left her fully aware of her own inadequacies as a soldier.

Reflecting on the encounter earlier, she said, “This one was using a conventional weapon. It seems she’s keeping a low profile.” The blonde girl fidgeted and grumbled, “Commissar Ludwig ignored our concerns.”

“Commissar Ludwig knows secrets that will make even the bravest warrior flee in terror,” Sorina said cryptically. “A valkyria is just a hazard of the job to a man like that… If we withdraw now, then our Empire’s weakness is unignorable.”

Nikola and Chiara exchanged looks, feeling as though they were not being heard. However, Siegward spoke up, alleviating their fears. “I doubt the United States plans to show its hand on this utterly irrelevant battlefield. But… we most certainly should have a plan on how to address this kind of threat. Especially since the loyalists are unaware of her presence.” He gestured at his commanders. “I am open to suggestions.”

“Leave it to us,” Chiara said, slowly reaching down and running a hand across the grenade bundle attached to her belt. “Just stay out of the way.”

“Chiara?” Nikola asked with a puzzled look on her face, “What are you thinking?”

“We are faster than these losers,” Chiara said, waving her hand dismissively at the rest of Kreigstocher. “The hunt will be easier if we keep moving. All we need to do is catch this bitch off guard and keep shooting.”

“Hmm.” Nikola put a hand on her forehead finding the lack of strategy frustrating, to say the least. “Our Dunkels are not going to be enough.” She snapped her finger. “Motherland! Fire is impossible to avoid forever!”

Chiara’s eyes widened, remembering their flamethower half-track, and she started to grin, “Hehe… We can force her into a corner, then burn her to ash.”

A creepy giggle from Sorina got all of their attention and she smiled. “Quite a primitive solution for a being you describe as so powerful.” She made an unnatural motion, moving something underneath her clothing; Nikola assumed it must be the bandages that were bothering the sniper. “But I suppose I understand the wisdom in torching a witch.”

Siegward clapped his hands together and spun around. “That works. Please excuse me, I will update Marshal Halvard and then radio Wolfgang to bring it up.” He quickly left them and reached over the half-track driver to use the radio receiver.

Nikola gratefully took the moment of respite from the topic on hand to collect herself. She slid silently down onto the stone. The pain her side was a dull but manageable throb, and she could catch her breath without flinching. Treasuring the quiet moment, she shut her eyes, trying to block out the distant sounds of battle for just a few seconds.

Chiara copied the move and sat down, crossing her legs. She was about to speak, but she was interrupted by her own stomach which growled nosily. She looked almost betrayed and exclaimed, “W–what? Already?”

Nikola’s eyes opened and she smirked. “Face it. You are getting soft.” She snickered coldly and roughly prodded her partner’s side. Taking revenge for earlier, she pinched a piece of Chiara’s skin and pulled on it, “Oh my, you are getting flabby.”

“Liar!” Chiara responded defensively, swatting away her hand. Embarrassed she looked away and mumbled, “It’s not possible. My calorie intake is still within recommendations.”

“You could have made a mistake. Some of those labels were pretty hard to read,” Nikola said with a malicious grin, enjoying the expression of panic on Chiara’s face. “Or who knows? Maybe I gave you an extra ration by mistake. It’s hard to keep track sometimes.” It was a spiteful lie, she knew; she had her own anxieties about not following the routine that had been so deeply engrained, without Lord Belgar.

“Shut up!” Chiara barked, lashing out toward her partner, who effortlessly pulled back dodging the blow while cackling cruelly.

The two were about to start fighting when the cold words of Sorina distracted them. “Cruelty begets cruelty.” Still standing in front of them, she calmly reached around and pulled something from the canvas pouch on her belt. “If you are hungry, eat.” She tossed a dried rectangular slab of meat onto Chiara’s lap, which she clumsily caught. “There are few pleasures in this wretched world. Take what you can before you drop dead.”

Chiara looked down and carefully picked up the food, staring at it closely. The brown piece of meat was dusted with white flakes of salt and she could smell a strong, smoky aroma. She was famished, and quickly she tore it in half, popping a small piece into her mouth. Her amber eyes lit up as the flavor of the sweet jerky filled her senses.

Her reaction caused Sorina to smile faintly before it faded. “A gnawing hunger should never be ignored…” There was a predatory gleam behind her eyes.

Believing Chiara to be exaggerating, Nikola reached over and snatched the remaining chunk from her partner without so much as a ‘please.’ She took a bite and found herself shocked to find that she could taste it. She savored the taste, and with a bit of embarrassment, realized she was drooling. She quickly wiped at her mouth and muttered, “It’s really good…”

Still somewhat in awe, Chiara nodded in agreement and finally found her voice. “Amazing…” She looked up. “How?”

“Because I met a demon,” Sorina said, intentionally trying to distract the girls. She reached up to adjust her bandages again, this time closer to her neck.

“A demon?” Nikola asked skeptically, knowing there was no such thing.

“A kind one. With wings a shade of black so deep, I was certain I would be consumed by them.” Sorina said, lowering her hand in a slow motion. “He had been impaled by an arrow and was in terrible pain. So I saved him and cared for his wound. In exchange, he offered me all sorts of knowledge. Proper gentleman, he was.”

There was a loud snort, and Fedor poked his head up over the side of the half-track. “Are you seriously trying to say a demon taught you to cook?” He sounded understandably unconvinced and shook his head. “Absurd. Don’t fill their heads with nonsense.”

Sorina clicked her tongue, and cocked her head away from him. “Maybe it was an emissary of the Valkyur.” She scoffed, “Though from it what it sounds like, they choose to take a more human form these days.”

“ _She_ was nothing more than a corrupt being impersonating the Almighty.” Fedor said, choosing to reject what he witnessed outright. “A grotesque product of man’s hubris, unfit to walk on this land.”

“Oh, I see,” Sorina said, rolling her eyes. Like clockwork, the two started to bicker with each other. This time their argument centered around how the Valkyur would have appeared in the past and if they would take a similar appearance in the present.

Finishing the meat, Chiara decided to ignore the tiresome argument and stretched her arms out, feeling satiated for the time being. She leaned back and glanced to her right. Nikola was silent again, staring off into space and chewing quietly.

With a toothy grin, Chiara reached over but stopped short when Nikola quietly spoke up, “If Lord Belgar is dead… Why does the United States still want me?”

The words came out as barely a whisper. Chiara retracted her hand. She moved a few inches closer and unhelpfully joked, “Maybe he is not.”

Nikola visibly cringed, starting to massage her wrists anxiously, her stoic mask falling away. She couldn’t help the fear that trickled into her voice. “No. No, he has to be…” An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of her stomach.

Seeing this was not a time to be pushing her partner, Chiara softened her tone and asked, “Does it matter then? So what if the United States wants you?” She put a hand confidently on her Dunkel and grinned, “Who says we will make it easy on them?”

Nikola found her own confidence lacking, especially considering how easily Irving tossed them both around. Regardless, her partner’s words were a little reassuring. Together they had managed to make him to flee with his tail between his legs. However the thought of ending up back in another sterile laboratory was enough to make her nauseous. Without warning, she reached out and grabbed Chiara’s arm, pulling her close. “Promise me something.”

The pained tone made Chiara uneasy, and she met her partner’s disturbed stare. “What?”

Nikola’s hand was still shaking. She tightened her grip, trying to suppress the fear in her voice. Unblinking, she spoke through her clenched jaw, “Under no circumstances am I going to be subject to anymore adjustments. If I am that important, they can kill me first.” She took a deep breath and continued, “So promise, Chiara. If it looks like they have disarmed me and there is no chance I can escape… you will end it quickly.”

The request hit Chiara like a train. She recoiled almost instantly at the idea, finding it impossible to even consider. She broke eye contact and stared at the ground. “Only as a last resort…” She trailed off realizing that far too much had been left unsaid in their relationship. The idea of being separated forever was enough to cause her chest to constrict uncomfortably.

“ _Promise_ ,” Nikola insisted, knowing that she was letting her anxiety get the better of her. She pushed her partner. “You know what its like. The scalpel… That torturous humming. I cannot go back to that.”

Chiara flinched. She knew the sound all too well. There was a metallic taste in the back of her throat, not dissimilar to the aftertaste of licking a crossbow bolt. It was a sensation that lingered for days after Lord Belgar would administer the proper voltage during an adjustment. She sighed, finally relenting, and gave a short nod. “Fine. I promise.”

Nikola relaxed as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She released her friend and leaned back against the wall. Her fingers tapped against Dunkel which was sat between them. “Do not look so glum. Together we are unstoppable, right?”

Chiara cocked her head to one side grinning. “Damn right. They do not stand a chance.” She stopped moving and clacked her teeth obnoxiously, squinting. “That Irving… did taste super weird though. Kind of like ragnoline actually.”

“Ah,” Nikola was caught off-guard at first, but then giggled coldly. She remembered the startled cry from the specialist when a chunk of his flesh was tore from the side of his neck. She licked her lips. “Save me some next time.” She then paused, looking back at Fedor and Sorina to see if they were still arguing. Seeing that they were she leaned over and spoke softly, “Thank you… comrade.”

She had picked up on the fact the word comrade carried a greater emotional weight to the rest of their men, who often used it as an expression of trust. Chiara did not register at first what she’d just said. Slowly, though, a smirk came to her lips. She teased, “Do not start getting sentimental. We are partners, after all.”

“Oh, I see,” Nikola said, pinching the back of Chiara’s neck and causing her to yelp. “Now what are we?”

“Comrades!” Chiara said hastily.

The two of them started to laugh but were soon interrupted by Siegward when he returned wearing a serious expression. “Agents. The situation has changed once again.”

Using the wall behind her, Nikola stood up. It seemed they would be moving out soon. “What now?”

“It appears Captain Ulf has found… a woman who might be your valkyria,” Siegward said, repeating what he was told over the radio.

“Might?” Chiara echoed, taking Nikola’s hand and allowing herself to be pulled up. “There is no _might_ about it. He would know.”

“Large machine gun. Mask… No blue light, though,” Siegward said listing off the qualities the two girls had described. “She’s gotten herself into pretty good position. He is having trouble dislodging her from her vantage. This is our chance to drive her off for good.”

“It is. We are going to need to use the city to our advantage,” Nikola said, dropping her jovial attitude. Fedor and Sorina stopped their arguing and were now listening to the other three intently.

“Alright! She will not expect so much fire!” Chiara exclaimed, giddy at the prospect of killing a valkyria. Her skill would be undeniable.

She flinched at a sharp thwack to her temple, and immediately reacted by biting at the offending hand. Nikola retracted her arm and stared at her. “Together, of course. Alone we do not stand a chance.”

“Well, duh!” Chiara said immediately, then returned the offending action with a swift punch to Nikola’s arm. “We going tear her apart!”

“How touching,” Sorina said with a discomforting hunger still lurking behind her dark red eyes. Under her breath she mumbled, “I wonder if that is true…”

Fedor, despite having been busy praying for Gottfried, was satisfied with the vague plan being concocted. “I am ready to avenge our fallen. If this Irving reappears, leave him to me.”

The half-track door swung open and Gunther dropped down on the ground. He walked around the side and handed the radio back to the chaplain. “I did what I could. Should at least work now.” Noticing the rest of the congregation, he said, “Ah. What did I miss?”

“We are killing a Valkyria, Gunther.” Nikola held out a fist and smirked. “So no playing dead this time.”

“Right,” Gunther replied, not liking the murderous twinkle in both of the girls’ eyes. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Ehehe… you will have a front row seat,” Chiara snickered, popping her shoulder. She loaded another bolt in to her crossbow.

“Oh no,” he paled, adjusting his cap nervously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally we were going to include the confrontation with VK in Part 3, but the editor is preparing to revolt, so it is getting moved to Part 4. This part will conclude with Montgomery and Lowe's sides, so look forward to that. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

As one of the oldest cities in Europe, Schwartzgrad served as the seat of power for the ancient autocracy that derived its authority from the holy Valkyur. The vast city was marred by its deep class divide. It was unignorable for most visitors, as one would have to pass through the squalid outskirts before reaching the wealthy inner city. Thousands of Imperials in poverty lined the middle-class districts, a testament to the nobility’s unwillingness to embrace even the most moderate economic reforms.

Within the walls, however, was a different story: from the mighty Imperial Palace that towered above the city, to the Yggdist cathedral in Arch Plaza and its ornate architecture. Any tourist would be hard-pressed to not find something that attracted their attention.

As the aristocracy preferred to live in their enormous estates in the countryside, most of the inhabitants of Schwartzgrad were part of a burgeoning middle class composed of merchants and bureaucrats. Small businesses who were supported through the generous patronage of the numerous noble families who spent their wealth frivolously. Just past the apartment buildings and townhouses where the ambassadorial district could be found, separated by a second layer of high walls.

The location was chosen as it allowed foreign dignitaries to appreciate a carefully curated picture of Eastern culture and to spend their money at the shopping districts. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, at least until the relationship between the Western States and the East European Imperial Alliance began to sour. As the drive to monopolize the precious resource ragnite took center stage during the industrial revolution, and with no way to turn outward to colonize the world, the Emperor changed set out to conquer the few remaining independent kingdoms around on the borders of the Empire. The result was predictable; more and more nations broke off diplomatic relations, in the wake of a continental game of tug-of-war. When the hounds of war fell silent, the once-vibrant Ambassadorial District stood empty.

The United States of Vinland was no exception; they too issued a decree ordering its representatives to return home, following the sinking of several merchant vessels in the North Sea by the Imperial Fleet during a particularly tense stand-off. So it was indeed a shock to the current Emperor when the Vinnish made a secret overture, wishing to negotiate an economic agreement. In the light of Operation Cygnus and its dark intentions, the aged autocrat rejected the idea outright at first. It was not until his favored wife, Catherine, reminded him of the dire situation facing the Imperial Army and its dwindling supply of ragnoline that he reconsidered.

It was by his order that Vinland’s former embassy was to be renovated with great haste—and, of course, discretion. The building itself already outwardly reflected the same Gothic architectural themes of Schwartzgrad, with high pointed spires, tan brick and an impractical amount of dark glass windows.

Inside the lobby was furnished with the height of Imperial opulence but with the restraint common to the United States. It was less flashy than the iconic regal look that Imperial design was known for. Rich brown hardwood formed exposed rafters, and cool shades of blue and white lined the walls. Instead of vibrant gold was shining silver accents and decorations. Long navy blue curtains covered the windows, and decorative Vinnish rugs lined the dark maplewood floors. Private suites, extravagant pictures of home for those who visited, took over the second floor, while conference rooms and offices filled the ground floor.

Unknown to anyone but the Lord Commissar’s inner circle, another building lined the back wall of the embassy, separated by a narrow alley. This second building was decorated plainly, seemingly built for essential workers to live in, in case the high cost of living in Schwartzgrad was too much. Inside, however, was a state-of-the-art listening post, put together by Commissar Ulyana in the weeks before the delegation’s arrival.

Numerous microphones had been planted throughout the embassy to ensure that word would be uttered without it being recorded and archived for use as possible leverage.

-

Montgomery York stood at the window, peering out at the empty alleyway. He removed his glasses, sliding them into the inner pocket of his deep blue double-breasted military tunic. He then reached don, picking off a small brown box off the window seal and clicked it open. Inside was a pair of glass contacts, which he proceeded to carefully place on his eyes.

He blinked repeatedly, then stared at his reflection in the window. He was satisfied to see his pupils were now a dark brown—very plain, an ideal quality for the coming operation. Seated on the table behind him, Catherine spoke, “Thorough work as always, York.”

Montgomery turned and snapped the wooden container shut with a quick motion. “You flatter me. But please, direct your praise toward the one most deserving of it. This is Ulyana’s operation, I merely provided the resources.”

A faint smile came to Catherine’s lips. With a cat-like glance, she said, “Ah, my mistake. Ulyana, dear, exceptional job.” The Empress crossed her legs and put a hand on her knee. Despite her finely-woven bronze dress, she had plopped herself in a rather unladylike fashion atop the wooden table in the middle of the cramped room. To say she seemed out of place would be an understatement; the total breach of conduct was not lost on the rest the Commissars.

Ulyana shifted uneasily in her own disguise: a spare handmaid outfit picked out by Catherine herself. She took a moment to pretend she was sorting the three folders in her hand before quietly mumbling, “It’s nothing, really, your majesty.”

“Always so bashful,” Catherine replied with a warm smile. “Have some pride in your accomplishments. This was no small feat,” she added smugly, before turning her attention back to the Lord Commissar who was in the process of fitting a black wig over his blonde hair. “I take it our guests will be delayed as planned?”

Montgomery nodded, moving his hand awkwardly across the smooth gold sphere that was serving as the head of his cane. The shape was unfamiliar, and thus made it awkward to hold. “Yes. Thanks to some heavy traffic, Ambassador Olaf will have to take a more scenic route into the city.”

Having been standing silently in the corner, Karl cleared his throat and added, “Which has the added benefit of allowing us to avoid any potential awkwardness about the state of Arch Plaza.” Appearances were crucial to such diplomatic talks, and simply concealing the extent of the damages inflicted on Schwartzgrad by the Federation would deny the United States a potentially powerful bargaining chip.

“Good. Very good,” Catherine said satisfied, even if she was a little underwhelmed by the operational methods of her Commissars. The real duties of the Commissariat were much more boring than the level of intrigue from her favorite adventure novels.

The Empress hopped off the table in a fluid motion, landing gracefully on her feet. “Anyway, thank you for humoring my curiosity, York. Now, if you would excuse me, I must finish my own preparations.”

“Think nothing of it, your majesty,” Montgomery replied in a uniquely guarded tone reserved for the Empress. Her presence during Commissariat operations was a good reason to be wary; he was positive she had sought to learn something about his approach to planning operations. He stood still and watched her leave, knowing better than to escort her to the door. Instead he asked, “Are you certain it is wise to attend these negotiations yourself?”

Catherine paused and furrowed her brow. “And what would you advise? Leaving my dear old husband to drag us into yet another war?” She waved her hand in a short, dismissive motion, causing her long sleeves to flutter. “Do not go sounding like Olaf on me. I would have assumed you of all people can see how critical our present situation is. The next few days have the potential to determine the fate of our Empire.”

An awkward silence hung over the room. Her disrespectful tone towards the Emperor was impossible to ignore, but no one in the room was in a position to comment. Ulyana finally broke the silence, a defensive edge to her voice, “All the Lord Commissar is saying, your majesty, is… that this is highly unorthodox. Playing our hand early is incredibly risky.”

“Do you doubt me?” Catherine asked slyly, watching Ulyana out of the corner of her eye. “I am by no means frightened by stuffy old diplomats. My presence will ensure these talks remained focus, should they try anything. I have no intention to allow us to sign an unfavorable agreement.” She shrugged, then continued, “Besides… I will have both you and York at my side. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Ulyana looked down, avoiding the Empress’s gaze. “Of course, your majesty.”

“Good,” Catherine said, then paused at the door. “Oh, and if you would, Ulyana—before taking your position, come speak with me. We will need to discuss appropriate etiquette in my presence. Nothing you do not already know, I am sure. But its good to be thorough.”

“I will be there just as soon as we finish up here,” Ulyana replied, briefly wondering what she had gotten herself into by agreeing to play the role of the Empress’s servant. Though she could not deny the wisdom of the disguise.

Catherine left the room, leaving the three Crows alone. Karl stepped forward, coming up to the table. His own disguise, a plain but high quality dress shirt and black vest, helped him in his role as head of the housekeeping staff. He had trimmed his beard short and wore a dark coiffed wig, which changed his appearance drastically. He reached into his pocket, removing a cigarette, but just held it in his hand. “Her majesty does not trust easily… If she happens to confide anything unrelated–”

Ulyana interrupted him, dropping her civil veneer. “My relationship with Empress Gothia is purely a professional courtesy and second to my obligation to this office. Fret not, Karl. I have detailed every aspect of our interactions in my coming report.” Holding three folders, she came forward, laying them on the table in front of them. “For the time being, let us focus on the task at hand.” Karl offered an innocuous nod and lit his cigarette.

Montgomery nodded in agreement “Indeed. Whatever her majesty is planning… I doubt it jeopardizes our Empire.” He pulled over the first brown folder. “I take it Echo was able to pass along pertinent information.”

“Yes, quite a bit actually.” Ulyana said laying out the folders in a row, having reviewed them all several times a few days prior.

Montgomery flipped open the first one and studied the faded photo that was clipped to the page. Staring at him was a wrinkled, white-haired gentleman, whose bushy eyebrow seemed to overtake his forehead. The name underneath was Herbert Worthy. The Lord Commissar squinted and muttered to himself. “Admiral… highly regarded…” He looked up, perplexed. “It is in rather odd taste to send such a staunch interventionist, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It appears he reneged on many of his views following retirement,” Karl said, having ignored the Lord Commissar’s order to rest by doing some research on his days off. “It is my opinion that changes in the United States’ political landscape has made it necessary for him be more tactile in a push for war.”

“Intriguing. No doubt the isolationist elements are anxious to silence those who wish to put boots on the grounds in support of the Federation,” Montgomery commented, tilting his head thoughtfully. He was genuinely curious now to see what the delegation would actually demand in the coming talks. Switching to the second folder and opening it, he found a picture, clearly taken in secret, of a balding man with wire-framed glasses wearing a black-tie suit. The man was shaking hands with a former president of the United States. He smiled, recognizing the person in the photo. “Ah, Marcus. How did you manage to involve yourself in this affair?”

Marcus Fink, one of the illusive investors in the Federal Electric Corporation, was a man of few morals. Montgomery had come into contact with him through secret channels while attempting to quietly procure a prototype ragnite engine built in the United States. The deal ultimately fell through, but the two men remained discreet allies.

“Should we make contact?” Ulyana asked, glancing over at the Lord Commissar.

“Not yet,” Montgomery replied, scanning through the rest of the page for anything he could potentially use as leverage against his old associate. “Let us see why he is here first.” He swapped to the third folder.

Inside the final report was surprisingly sparse; aside from the name Laura Ingelhelm, the only other information provided was that she was a graduate from the rather prestigious University of Stendhal, with a degree in the field of anthropology. From there, she worked for a subsidiary of the Walt Ordnance Corporation, called Ancestral Discoveries whose influences reached throughout the world. They were well known in the field for collecting Valkyurian artifacts for study from poorer nations, through force if needed. Afterwards, Ingelhelm was transferred to the United States’ diplomatic corp, which explained her role as the head of the delegation.

Seeing the thoughtful look on Montgomery’s face, Ulyana filled in the blanks for him. “She played a small role in the economic agreement signed between the United States and the Federation in ‘35.”

Karl exhaled, a cloud of smoke trickling upwards from his mouth. “So… at long last the doves of peace have descended to pick us apart.”

Ulyana raised an eyebrow at the poetic statement, finding the description too flowery for her tastes. “A little earlier than expected… I assumed they would have at least waited a little longer, given the fact Operation Cygnus failed.”

“It goes without saying that for whatever reason, the Federation unknowingly upset Vinland’s grand design. Now, if I was to guess, they are scrambling to capitalize on the threat,” Montgomery said stepping away from the center table and returning to the window. “The total annihilation of Schwartzgrad would put the whole world in check, painting a clear picture of the consequences of resisting the new global order being formed.”

“Now since their ace in hole is gone, they have had to focus their efforts on us,” Karl said, putting together the rest of his boss’s line of thinking. Another cloud of smoke floated to the ceiling, and he scratched his temple right under the wig, already beginning to find it uncomfortable. “We are certainly at a disadvantage. It is impossible to know just how large their arsenal truly is.”

Montgomery considered the speed at which the political landscape was being shaped by a power not even directly involved in the conflict. “No doubt the United States has been stockpiling for quite some time now.” He paused, remembering the discussion he had with a certain doctor about the coming age of warfare. “I hate to admit it, but Heinrich’s prediction was spot on. The Emperor allowed himself to be blinded by impotent conceptions of race, and now we have been left in the dust as a result of our own close-mindedness.” He sighed in frustration and returned to the table, placing a hand on it and leaning forward, “It goes without saying, bowing down to the West is out of the question. As is watching idly as the Federation sacrifices its independence to become nothing more than an attack dog for a foreign state. The Valkyur stood for Europe, as does the Empire now. Therefore I intend to fight with every weapon at my disposable to safeguard the freedom of all our countrymen, no matter how misguided they are. If this entire continent must be reduced to ashes along with all its people, then so be it. For it will my last act on this Earth to deny the United States the resources they so desperately hunger for.”

Ulyana paused in awed silence at his impassioned declaration, her umber eyes glittering with admiration. Karl’s expression hardened, and he leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “Then it is time. The order of recall must be sent out.”

Montgomery stared at his loyal subordinate, then sighed, finding himself in agreement. “Very well. Once we are finished here, I will sign it first thing.” He dropped his authoritative tone and looked over at Ulyana. “I find it most unfortunate Empress Gothia wants me present during the talks. My skills are by no means suited for diplomacy.”

“Not to worry, Lord Commissar,” Ulyana said with a noticeable smirk, remembering how quickly he managed to overstep his position during the garden party. “That is why I am dressed in such an absurd outfit, right? If you say something faux pas, I will personally drag you away myself.”

“I am depending on you,” Montgomery said, reaching over and flipping the third report shut. “Very good then. If there is nothing else for me to look over, then I suggest you hurry. If we keep Empress Gothia waiting any longer, she’s likely to have our heads.”

“Right away, sir,” Ulyana said with a salute, and making for the door.

She left, and Karl moved to the side of the room to pick up a plain briefcase. He brought it back over and set it down. With a click it opened, and he asked, “And you are certain she is the best choice?” Inside was a receiver which was capable of picking up the mics positioned around the Embassy. He had the rather boring job of transcribing what he could, so the information could reviewed at a later date.

Montgomery watched as his subordinate fiddled with the dials and extended a small metal antenna. “Ulyana’s enthusiasm makes her far and beyond the best candidate.” He smirked and tapped a knuckle to his chin. “Besides, we are both old men now. I will not make the same mistake Foka did. My designated successor will be undeniable.”

Karl paused and looked up, grinning around the cigarette between his teeth. “Come on, now, Monty. I’m not that old.”

“Hmm.” He found himself studying Karl’s disguise intently, realizing it had been a long time since either of them had been together out of uniform. “No, you most certainly are not. The years have been kind to you. I myself cannot pretend to be so fortunate.” He averted his gaze and chuckled, “To think I survived the first war without a scratch, only for age to make it impossible to tell.”

“You speak as though experience has no appeal,” Karl said at this point used to Montgomery’s penchant for self-loathing. He took another puff and his grin faded, “Besides, I do recall several young women being enticed by the mysterious Lord Commissar of Schwartzgrad and his enraged rant about the backwardness of serfdom.”

Montgomery’s nose curled almost instantly in disgust. “By the Emperor, Ludwig. I could have been any one of those girls’ father.”

“Hedvig did believe that was the cause of their interest,” Karl said, amused by the repulsed expression on Montgomery’s face. “All I’m saying is that most men would see that kind as an excuse to be full of themselves.”

“Most men have time to pursue idle fantasies and degenerate, hedonistic pleasures,” Montgomery said disdainfully as he reached into his coat. “My first love is, and will forever be, my Motherland.” He pulled out an engraved silver pocket watch, checking the time. He gave a quick nod and said, “Now if you would excuse me, I better take my position.” He walked around the table, stopping next to Karl. “Besides, I would much prefer your company, Ludwig, as a devoted servant of our Empire, than someone with a passing interest in whatever intrigue they find about me from idle gossip."

He huffed a laugh under his breath and left Karl alone in the room. The disguised Commissar shook his head, finding the idea humorous, and returned to his assignment. He placed a few packs of state-produced cigarettes next to to the briefcase and flipped the red switch next the antenna, listening for a crackle to indicate the mics were in working order. Once certain they were, he turned and dragged over a chair taking a seat in front of the briefcase, settling in for a long six hours.


	8. Chapter 8

Montgomery crossed the alleyway and entered the embassy through the back door. He quickly made his way through several sparsely decorated rooms, which were not intended to be seen by anyone but the servants—who were, of course, all on the Commissariat’s payroll. After a short walk through one of the side halls he stepped out into the spacious lobby.

The flag of the Vinland hung from the ceiling, greeting visitors with its vibrant blue and orange. The flag was strung around a grandiose silver chandelier, which was currently turned off in order to allow natural light to stream in through the windows.

In the center stood Catherine, wearing a disinterested expression on her face, with a few of her closest advisers. Ulyana was nowhere to be seen, but Montgomery assumed that just meant she was choosing to avoid the spotlight. He stopped, took a moment to square his shoulders, before taking his spot at the Empress’s left.

Having heard him approaching thanks to the tapping of his cane on the stone floor, Catherine didn’t turn to address him. “One of your men just sent word that the delegation has entered the city.”

“Right on time, then,” Montgomery said, leaning on his cane and trying his best to hide his discomfort with being so out in the open. “It’s a long way from Zwolle. Won’t our guests be tired?”

“No doubt. But I granted Olaf the use of my personal train, so they should at least be no complaints,” Catherine replied before falling into the cold demeanor of an impartial statesmen. “That said, their presence in our city is insulting. I want these talks concluded as swiftly as possible. If we are unable to reach an equal agreement in a week’s time, then I expect your men to remove them with haste.”

Montgomery glanced over, matching her detached manner of speech, once again reminding himself that his patron was not a woman to be underestimated. “Do you believe there is anything to be gained from this charade? The United States never makes deals that leave it at a disadvantage.”

“My guess is they intend to use our recent… disagreement with those curs in the Far East. The United States most likely seeks a common ally against their expansion. Or perhaps a more dangerous game is afoot,” Catherine said introspectively, clasping her hands together. “Let us be cautious, Yo– ah, excuse me—Sir Black.” Her mask briefly slipped, as she found his choice in pseudonym always amusing.

Montgomery nodded, choosing to ignore her. His choice in disguise was meant to be thorough. Given the fact he had lived as Oswald Black for several years of his life, it was a perfect second identity to hide his true nature behind. The two stood in awkward silence, and after a few more minutes a red-faced Olaf opened the door ahead of them, ushering in the representatives of the United States.

The stout man was dressed in a fine red-and-gold robe that almost appeared as if he had the Imperial flag draped over him. He scuttled over and made a short, dignified bow. “Grand Empress Gothia.” He held out an arm to the men and women in his company, “It is my pleasure to present to you Ambassador Laura Ingelheim and the representatives from the United States of Vinland.”

Catherine offered them a calculated mask, a polite porcelain smile on her face. “Welcome to Schwartzgrad, honored guests.”

The procession moved to bow properly in the face of their better. Montgomery found himself wondering what formalities were going to be maintained, given the odd nature of the meeting. Taking control of the situation, Catherine stepped forward and commanded, “There is no reason to prostrate yourself in my presence. Stand.”

There was some awkward shuffling as the group stood, and Olaf moved to the Empress’s right. It was Laura who spoke first. “You are most gracious, your majesty.” She then quickly added on a second compliment, “Your country’s hospitality has been most marvelous.”

“Let us try and avoid condescension, dear,” Catherine’s tone suddenly shifted toward iciness. Montgomery and Olaf both exchanged uneasy glances wondering what she thinking. But there was method to the Empress’s madness. Her majesty continued, “It was the United States who, less than a month ago, wished to reduce this very city to nothing. Yet my husband approved this meeting anyway, because we are not savages as you in the West believe. Therefore, we shall converse as equals, but hold no delusions that we are friends.”

In an instant, Laura’s own upbeat attitude was dropped. She straightened up and said, “If that is what your majesty wishes. My apologies—I meant no disrespect. Our desire is reconciliation, after all… Let us endeavor to reach an accord favorable to both our homelands.”

“Please,” Catherine said, satisfied with the uneasy expression on the diplomat’s face. She held a hand toward Montgomery. “As you have already met Ambassador Olaf, I would like to introduce another one of my aides. This is my personal adviser, Sir Oswald Black.”

On queue, putting on a show, Montgomery bowed as deeply as his leg would allow. “It is a pleasure to meet such esteemed people. Hopefully our meeting is fruitful.”

The fact he could barely contain his disdain bled through his conciliatory words and a discomforting silence hung over the whole lobby. At least until a voice behind Herbert Worthy asked, “Pardon the interruption, but… the author Oswald Black?”

Montgomery froze, taken aback by the question, considering he had not written a single noteworthy work under the name since the first war. But, more pressingly, the voice was familiar to him; the deep cadence oozing confidence was unmistakable. Sure enough, a fourth, older man stepped forward, wearing an insufferable smirk. His hair was slicked back, silver, and his dull eyes a matching color. A pair of spectacles were clipped to his nose, complimenting his deeply wrinkled face and giving him a sophisticated appearance.

It was obvious some effort went into the costume, but Montgomery recognized him immediately. Heinrch Belgar, the traitorous snake. His eyes darted from this man to Catherine, whose own poker face vanished momentarily when she muttered quietly under her breath, “Ah… How bold.”

Montgomery swallowed, suppressing his inconsolable rage if only for the moment, and placed both hands on the head of his cane. “Sorry. No relation.”

“My mistake then. Please forgive my brazenness,” Belgar replied, slinking back behind the admiral, clearly taking great pleasure in their reaction.

Unwilling to allow Montgomery to cause a scene, Catherine cleared her throat. “Not to worry.” She held out her left arm toward the hallway that split from the lobby. “This way. The servants will be delighted to show you all to your rooms.”

The procession headed in the direction she indicated and several servants, Ulyana among them, emerged from seemingly nowhere to assist. Belgar took a moment to linger next to the Lord Commissar and sighed longingly. “Pity. It would have been too good to be true, to meet such an exceptional author so unexpectedly. He had such a way with words.”

He left without giving Montgomery a chance to respond; York’s knuckles were white, hands shaking, as he had to restrain himself from using his cane to crack open that treacherous leech’s skull.

  
  


–

  
  


The torrential rains, which had plagued Lowe and Nacht during the first week of their trek, eventually subsided, allowing them to just barely keep pace with the hound’s movements. The fact they only traveled by night complicated matters, but upon rendezvousing with the remainder of Sokolov’s cell, the two guerrillas were directed by Natalia, the mother of their deceased comrade, to a train depot located halfway between the town of Rigmala and the village of Malanga.

A few disgruntled workers had managed to pass along pertinent information related to Commissar Leopold’s itinerary. He was to oversee the transportation of a shipment of ragnite to one of Krimm’s manufactory in Schwartzgrad. A simple plan was drawn up; the revolutionaries intended to bomb the railway in order to apply even more pressure to the Empire’s already stressed supply lines.

The two Darcsen lurked in the dark forest circling the depot. The moonlight was obscured by the cloudy night sky, plunging the area into an impenetrable dark, allowing for easy observation of the well-lit Imperial position.

Silently, Nacht climbed up the mighty arms of a fir tree that stood tall above the rest of the forest. He watched with his monocular as the guards routinely patrolled the perimeter. Time was critical for this mission; they only had a few hours remaining until morning. Knowing this, he took a headcount and noted the patterns in the patrols that circled the high, razor-wire fence surrounding the area.

He personally had always found the internal troops of the Commissariat amusing; they were terrified of the dark. The building had massive spotlights mounted on the two guard towers, cutting perfect circles through the darkness. Their paranoia was to his benefit, as he was able to get an adequate headcount without much effort. From his perch, Nacht counted three patrols. The Commissariat was generally well-equipped, and it seemed these troops were no exception.

Once he felt he had a solid grasp of what they were up against, he hopped back down to where Lowe was waiting. “Never seen so many Imps in one place before. Something must have really spooked them.”

Lowe was crouched down, staring thoughtfully at the side of the depot facing them. “Comrade Natalia mentioned the peasants have become increasingly restless. I am sure the Lord of Crows fears reprisals for the rise in grain quotas…” She tapped the barrel of her machine pistol. “Regardless, it doesn’t change our mission. How long is our opening?”

“Ten minutes. Crows love their schedules,” Nacht answered as a sweep from a search light illuminated the field. “That said, if we are spotted, I doubt we are going to escape.”

He glanced down, knowing full well Lowe already made up her mind. Confidently she declared, “Being born Darcsen is to be born dead. The risk is worth it to strike a blow against the occupiers.”

Before Nacht could respond, she had already taken off. Lowe sprinted out into the field, her gun gripped in one hand, as she lowered into a partial crouch. He rolled his eyes, used to her unshakable spirit. He wrapped a torn piece of cloth over the barrel of his rifle and followed her.

-

Crawling on their stomachs, they managed to reach the fence without drawing attention, through the blessing of the tall grass. Once at the edge, Nacht pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, making a small point of entry just large enough for them to crawl underneath one at a time. He yanked the corner up, allowing Lowe to pass through first. Once she passed through, she turned around and held it open for him. She quickly smoothed out the gap, doing her best to ensure it would be invisible without a close look.

“Bah. It’s not like they can see in those ugly helmets anyway,” Lowe whispered, frustrated by the metal’s unwillingness to bend perfectly back into place. She turned to Nacht and jerked her head, and they continued creeping towards the brick building attached to the platform, running parallel to the railroad itself. Poking her head around the wall, Lowe spotted one guard with his back turned to them. In the distance was a red and gold banner hanging from the guard tower on the other side of the depot.

Nacht waited patiently. Lowe paused before holding her hand up, and they both sprinted over to several transport trucks parked on the opposite side facing the rails. There was a single glowing ragnite generator that bathed the area in an ambient blue light. Not enough for them to be noticed, but enough to put them on edge. She caught Nacht’s eye, and his expression made her pause. He felt as if his nerves were making him more visible, that the Commissars might hear his heart pounding before they saw him. Lowe gently took his hand and held it to her heart. Her heart, too, was racing. Together, her expression told him, and he nodded once before withdrawing his hand.

Quietly, Nacht whispered, “How do you want to do this?”

“Just like camp sixteen. We play it safe. One at a time,” Lowe said, referencing an earlier raid on an Imperial concentration camp where they had successfully liberated around fifty prisoners before being discovered. She pointed to a small chunk of the tracks which was shrouded in darkness and could easily conceal a body. “There. One carefully placed blast, and the whole train will go boom.”

“Alright.” Nacht said, deciding to not remind her how poorly the second half the raid went when the Crows were closing in all around them. “I will go first.” He took a minute to wait for a guard to pass and then slid his satchel off his shoulder. When the coast was clear, he darted out from cover and slid into the shade. Working fast he placed the first bundle in between the wooden sleepers, throwing some dirt on top in order to conceal its red tinge. One of the spot lights swept overhead and he hugged the concrete platform, frozen.

It passed without stopping, and he exhaled in relief. He quickly set the second charge and rushed back to their position. Reaching his comrade, Nacht breathlessly said, “Your turn.”

“See? Not so hard,” Lowe responded, playfully nudging his shoulder. She grabbed the remaining charges and repeated the process. As she was placing the second one, the sound of boots against stone caused her to drop to the ground, pushing against the platform.

Sure enough, two guards walked over to the edge, their black armor blending into the shadows around them. One of the men struck a match, lighting a cigarette that was hanging out from below his face plate. The second one, who had already been speaking, continued, “I am telling the truth, Hugo. I saw her. The Pale Crow is real.”

“And I am telling you, you didn’t,” The smoking guard replied as the edge of his boot poked out just above Lowe, who held tightly to her machine pistol. “The Pale Crow is just some ghost story used to scare new recruits. She isn’t real. Its best to drop it, or we’ll both be under evaluation.”

The second guard shifted, adjusting the strap on his arm, and insisted, “White uniform right? White hair? Red eyes? That is what the others were talking about.” The smoking one—Hugo, apparently—grunted nervously. “She was in Schwartzgrad with Commissar Ludwig… Why else do you think we were under radio silence for so long after the Feds left?”

“We were under radio silence because the military is rotten to the core. The Lord Commissar feared a revolt was inevitable if the traitors learned the truth of what transpired. No doubt you must have seen Commissar Ludwig speaking to a civilian,” The one called Hugo responded dismissively. “A lot was going on—”

He was cut off when the second man took a sniff and asked, “Hold on. Do you smell that?” He moved, the clinking of his armor indicated he was further down near Lowe’s feet.

“You know damn well I can’t,” Hugo muttered, having lost his sense of smell during a mishap with a chemical weapon.

“Ugh… It’s putrid… Were any of the laborers shipped through recently?” The second man asked in disgust.

Lowe twitched and self-consciously tilted her head down to smell her scarf. It smelled normal. She frowned, then reminded herself that she hadn’t worked a day in the camps, so they couldn’t have been picking anything up from her. Hugo shrugged and continued, “Yeah, yesterday evening. Camp four is getting ravaged by chlorea again, so Commissar Volker wanted to move the more able-bodied workers.”

“Serves those dark-hairs right. ‘Bout time the universe stopped coddling them.” The other guard said callously, as he walked back. “At this point it would probably make more sense to lock them in and throw away the key.” He snorted, finding the idea hilarious. The two finally left, walking back in the other direction.

Lowe mulled over the idea of killing them both, but swallowed down the impulse. She returned to Nacht, who had watched with worry and mild amusement. It was comical to see the two guards neglect to simply look down, where Lowe had been laying. As she leaned back against the truck, she grumbled, “Bastards. This is still our land.”

Nacht glanced over and reached over, squeezing her shoulder. “Relax. Start shooting now, and we’ll miss our chance.” He released her and slid his stachel back onto his shoulder. In his other hand was a small, metal detonator. “Shall we find a better position?”

-

Just as the sun began to emerge and bathe the depot in morning light, a black Kubelwagen came sputtering down the road. Behind it trailed an armored car and two transport trucks. It had been a long trip, and Leopold found his eyes feeling heavy as he read over the itinerary. Fortunately, everything was still on schedule, despite the short delay as several prisoners had attempted to resist being separated from their families.

The car slowed to a stop outside the gate, and without even looking up, the Commissar handed his identification papers to the guard. After a momentary pause while they were verified, the convoy was waved through.

He turned a page over, feeling the Kubelwagen come to an abrupt halt outside the of the main building. His new driver, a young man of barely seventeen, hastily offered his boss an apology. “I am sorry, sir.”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” Leopold said reassuringly, aware this was the boy’s first real operation. Scratching his chin, he added, “If you would send a message to Volker, tell him the decline in the productivity of camps six and seven has become noticeable.”

“Yes, sir,” The driver said, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel.

“Oh, and let him know I am going to take inventory of the surviving laborers. The ones still fit to work will be transferred to other camps. As for the rest, I am requesting his permission to go ahead and euthanize those who have fallen ill with ragnite poisoning,” Leopold said dryly as he put down the clipboard. He reached over, grabbing his peak cap which was on the seat next to him and placed it on his head. Satisfied, he stepped out onto the concrete and put both hands on his hips, watching with a blank expression as the trucks backed up toward the edge of the railway.

He only waited a few minute before an enforcer in black approached him and saluted. “Sir! Krimm’s train just passed the north checkpoint.”

“On schedule, at least,” Leopold said, relieved. He was used to finding himself inconvenienced by the corporation’s time tables, which rarely synced up with his own. He put a hand in his pocket before jerking his head toward the idling trucks. “Go ahead and put those mongrels to good use. I want everything unloaded, counted, and prepped to be shipped. Lets be quick about it.”

The enforcer saluted and turned, nodding to several others who had taken positions near the trucks. Cacophonous noise rose from the platform as the prisoners were forced from vehicles. Skeletal figures in grey jumpsuits emerged, a testament to human barbarity. Gaunt faces with skin stretched over the bone and dark, sunk-in eyes marred their expressions. Shuffling corpses clinging to their traditional scarves for comfort, unwilling to submit completely to the authority of their captors. The Darcsen were put to work handling ragnite under the watchful eyes of the soldiers.

Disinterestedly, Leopold turned away, caring not to see the suffering he was responsible for inflicting. His action was not to suggest he could not stomach the work; after all, the Darcsen were an obsolete race who had betrayed the motherland by aiding its enemies. The Valkyur had warned Europe of the threat posed by the people. As such, it was logical that the solemn duty of protecting the Imperial Alliance fell to its devoted sons in the Commissariat. For they alone were the living embodiment of the ideology the state was founded upon.

In the distance, the sound of a horn echoed. He stepped over to the edge of the platform, seeing an armored train barreling toward the depot. “Right on time,” Leopold muttered whilst checking his watch, completely unaware of the explosives buried just below his feet.

-

The massive steel beast came to a screeching halt a few minutes later. The black locomotive was rounded and marked with the red K of the Krimm Corporation. It sported a single machine gun on the top, for use in defense in case it was attacked. A conductor in civilian dress exited from the back and hopped down coming over to Leopold. “Good to see you again, Commissar Bernheim.*”

“Likewise, comrade,” Leopold replied with a slight nod, holding out his hand expectantly. The conductor pulled out his identification and handed it over. The Commissar studied the documentation closely. “Everything looks to be in order. Very good…” He glanced at the man, studying his face while making some small talk, “I heard competition for the new heavy tank contract has been fierce. Any word on who the Emperor might favor?”

“Hard to say. Von Bismarck wants it badly,” the conductor answered vaguely, waiting for his ID to be returned. “Truly, we are just glad to be doing our part for the Motherland.”

Satisfied with the answer, Leopold handed the man’s ID back and signaled to his men with a short wave to began loading the metal containers.

-

From their vantage point in the woods, Nacht looked down his monocular and said, “That’s the hound, alright. Spitting image of the photograph.” He adjusted his zoom, focusing on the prisoners who were working close to the train. “Blowing the charges is going to kill a whole lot more than the Crow.”

Crouching, Lowe held onto the trigger mechanism. “We will have to hold the funeral rites for our comrades later. Their martyrdom is admirable.” It would not be the first time the Darcsen Liberation Movement killed other Darcsen in their drive to inflict lasting wounds on the Imperial State, and she knew perfectly well it would not be the last, either. There was often times little to be done for their people already trapped in bondage. Only through the destruction of the Empire could they truly be freed.

“Our ancestors will welcome them as heroes,” Nacht said solemnly, used to the sacrifices required to wage war effectively against such a powerful enemy. “On my word then…” He waited patiently as the crates were loaded one by one onto the car while watching Leopold’s own movements. Fortunately, the Commissar remained close to the train speaking to the conductor. As the fourth crate was placed onto the train, he said. “Now.”

Lowe pressed down on the trigger and two small explosions followed, igniting the ragnite. The train burst into a massive plume of fire, creating a shockwave which flattened the grass around the depot. A second blast came immediately after, blowing up the rest of the train and vaporizing many of the Imperials and prisoners in a fiery blast.

-

Leopold had not been fortunate to be killed instantly by the blast; instead, he found himself laying on the ground, gasping as he stared at the painfully bright morning sky. Beyond the ringing in his ears, the sounds bled into the screams of his men. He could feel warm blood filling his mouth and gurgled, trying to clear his throat. He felt as though he was on fire—every nerve on his body seared by the blast.

He choked, rolling over and spitting blood as coughs wracked his body. It was at this point he realized his legs were gone. He felt them, but—there was nothing below his knees to give him purchase. Through his hazy eyesight he saw them, or perhaps they were someone else’s legs, gored and flung a few feet away. It was to his relief, at least, that he saw his own arm move in front of his face; it was some odd comfort to know there would still be something for his family to bury.

As the world darkened around him, Leopold could hear his mother scolding him for choosing such a dishonorable profession. There were far safer jobs for a young man with such promise and good genetics. Yet in the end, he could not say he held any regrets at all.

Commissars were prepared from recruitment to die for their motherland. To make the sacrifice others shied away from, and in his final moments, Leopold felt like a great burden was being lifted from his shoulders. He had done his duty to the Lord Commissar, and he died, content in knowing his death would be repaid by his comrades.

-

By the time the Internal Troops had rallied, Lowe and Nacht were long gone. They did not stop running until they were safely back with Natalia’s cell, hidden away in the musty cellar of a local peasant’s farmhouse.

With motherly gentleness, Natalia put a hand on Lowe’s face and asked, “Is it done child?” She already knew the answer; without pause, she wrapped her arms around the younger woman. “Thank you… My son’s soul can rest at long last.”

Lowe offered a weak smile. “We are not done, kayshish.* Some of our people made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure our success.”

Natalia released her, stepping back. “Then we will honor them. Their deaths granted us this victory.”

The older woman began shuffling through cabinets, gathering a few supplies. Lowe and Nacht untied their scarves, retying them to cover their heads. Natalia returned, tying small strips of torn, dark red cloth around each other their left wrists.

“Come, let us begin,” she offered, holding a trowel in her hand. They followed her outside, behind the small farmhouse. Natalia handed the trowel to Nacht and began unraveling her scarf from her neck.

“Are we burying yours, savta?” Lowe asked quietly.

Natalia offered her a tired smile. “It is thanks to you that I can honor my son today,” she said, gently folding the scarf. She handed it to Lowe for her to hold, then took the trowel back. Patiently, she began to dig a small hole in the dry earth.

Nacht hummed the first few notes of a solemn tune, and Lowe joined him. It was a mourning song, wordlessly sung without a proper spiritual leader to guide the procession. Natalia placed down the trowel and Lowe offered the scarf to her. It was placed carefully into the small hole, after which the old woman stood up, brushing off her skirt.

“May those who have left us return to the soil from which we came,” her voice rising and falling along the song. “So that they may guide the living. May their memory remind us of the fire that burns within us and keeps us warm. As they are returned unto the land, may their spirits live on around us.”

The humming stopped as they traded the trowel, taking turns to shovel dirt over the scarf. Once it was buried, Lowe rested a stone on top of it to secure the grave.

Once the prayers were concluded, Nacht and Lowe bid their elder farewell. Her cell would return to the committee to inform them of what had transpired. Natalia offered what little provisions which could be spared, and wish them both the luck in the world in expanding the struggle to the Nord Republic.

Free of distractions, the Darcsen partisans began their trek north. While their path was uncertain, their course was inevitably set to cross the Lord of Crows and his flock; the day would come when their meeting would set off a chain reaction to shape the future of the Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Part 3. We'll be back next time with an omake and an update to the posting schedule. Thanks so much for reading!


	9. Omake

**Catherine von Gothia**

Age: 38  
  
Title: Grand Empress of the East European Imperial Alliance

The third wife of the current Emperor. Catherine is the last descendant of an ancient noble line which was on the decline around the time the East European Imperial Alliance was founded. A shrewd woman and capable statesman, she manages the internal affairs of the vast Empire, allowing her husband to pursue his fanciful delusions about the Valkyur bloodline. Despite being Montgomery’s patron, she does not trust him and is well aware of his disdain for the nobility. In an attempt to hinder his schemes, she frequently invites him to noble and government ceremonies, while also keeping a close tabs on the Commissariat’s official dealings.

  
  


**Montgomery York**

Age: 67

Title: Lord Commissar

The enigmatic Lord Commissar of Schwartzgrad, who regularly recruits individuals that have survived against all odds. His attitude toward the Empire reflect his choice in subordinates; he is a man who reveres the Empire as the ideal state, but harbors no loyalty to the nobility credited with building it. He had kept the names of nobles that were involved in a plot to undermine the invasion of Gallia. Yet, it wasn't until after the failure of Siegval that he became convinced of a grander conspiracy to sabotage the Imperial war effort. In response, he conducted a purge of the Commissariat’s ranks with righteous zeal. The purge left the entire organization paralyzed until the very end of Operation Cygnus. What remained was an organization without a Commissar above the age of 35 outside of his inner circle; the survivors have formed a cult of personality surrounding him, elevating him to a status perhaps higher than the Emperor.

  
  


**Karl Ludwig**

Age: 46

Title: Commissar

York’s right hand; a soft-spoken man who always seems tired, but underneath the surface is a fiercely devoted servant of the Lord Commissar, and shares nearly all of the same radical views. Unlike the Lord Commissar, though, Karl’s approach to command is a much more paternal approach. He tends to view his troops as his children, and as a result, he is willing to take responsibility for their failures. He has been awarded the medal of the Crow taking Flight, symbolizing going above and beyond the call of duty. His macabre hobby of photographing dead men has raised more than a few eyebrows from his comrades.

  
  


**Volker**

Age: 51

Title: Commissar, Prison Camp Administrator  
  
A reformed serial killer and one of the first men recruited into Montgomery’s inner circle, Volker is primarily tasked with the extraction of confessions from condemned individuals. Viewed by others in the Commissariat as a primitive man, he displays an almost inhuman stamina and frequently works through the night without sleep. At the same time, he is the primary overseer of the Empire’s vast prison camp system and is the man responsible for handling the Darcsen problem.

  
  


**Klara Hedvig**

Age: 42  
  
Title: Commissar

Klara is a notoriously efficient woman whose primary job within the Commissariat is the counter-terrorism operations both within the Empire and recently occupied territories. She has a detached demeanor toward her job, seeing violence as a necessary means to get the job done. She prefers a blunt approach to handling perceived threats, which has earned her the nickname, “The Hammer.”

  
  


**Ulyana Von Wolzogen**

Age: 34

Title: Commissar

The newest member of Montgomery’s inner circle, she seeks a higher purpose outside of the stagnant nobility and a life of political marriages. She views Montgomery as a mentor figure, and actively tries to live up to his expectations. She is seen as a reliable member of the Commissariat, which often results in her duties changing based on what situation is the most pressing. She’s been partaking in the Empress’s lavish garden parties on her own.

  
  


**Leopold Alois Du Bernheim**

Age: Deceased

Title: Commissar

Tracing his lineage back to one of the major Gallian patriarchs of the Imperial Alliance, Leopold is the odd man out within the Imperial Commissariat. Although his class has never prevented him from doing his duty, he is usually distrusted with more sensitive information and largely ignored by the inner circle.  
  
He is loved by the soldiers under his command, who affectionately refer to him as _Papa._ Currently, he is overseeing the organized campaign of extermination being waged against the Darcsen Liberation Movement on the fringes of the Empire. He was finally granted reprieve from his duty to the Empire when a bomb, planted by Lowe, exploded underneath the Krimm Corporation's train, vaporizing a train depot and killing him in the blast.  


**Manfred Rahul**

Age: 30  
  
Title: Commissar

Formerly a smuggler named Otmar, Manfred was brutally reeducated and now dutifully serves the Commissariat. His body is horribly scarred and he has been blinded in one eye, making it difficult to fulfill his new purpose. He is assigned to the arduous task of tracking down the pieces of a mysterious valkyrian artifact.

  
  


**Owl**  
  
Age: 26  
  
Title: Commissar

Recruited by Manfred, Owl was once a fellow smuggler who transported a piece of a valkyrian artifact to a collector outside of the Empire.

  
  


**Seiko Kimura**

Age: 29

Title: Doctor

Far-Eastern doctor who once worked for the Imperial Science Board, but now spends most of her time helping the lower classes of Schwartzgrad while occasionally fulfilling requests from York. After being approached to handle Nikola and Chiara’s unique case, she was convinced to serve as Kriegstotcher’s physician and tends to the wounded with a surprising gentleness despite her odd mannerisms.

  
  


**Nikola Graf**  
  
Age: 15  
  
Title: ~~X-0 Second Lieutenant~~ [Expunged]

Nikola was adopted by Doctor Belgar at a young age in order to fulfill the requirements of a research grant commissioned by the Emperor. Subjected to numerous brutal “adjustments,” her concept of self has been completely destroyed. She doesn’t consider herself much more than an experimental weapon, and is often worried about performing her duties lest she be retired. The stress of her situation contributed to her emotional instability.

During the battle of Schwartzgrad, being on the verge of death, she was dragged to safety by Chiara who, despite their shared animosity, refused to abandoned her. She was spared execution by Lord Commissar York, who placed her and Chiara in charge of a newly formed Commissariat unit, which they named Kriegstotcher. Her freedom from X-0 has allowed her mind to recover marginally and provided her some merciful clarity about aspects of her life. Primarily, she’s learned that she genuinely cares about Chiara’s well-being and wants to make up for her abusive treatment of her only true friend.

  
  


**Chiara Rocino**  
  
Age: 14  
  
Title: ~~X-0 Second Lieutenant~~ [Expunged]

Chiara was adopted by Doctor Belgar at a young age in order to fulfill the requirements of a research grant commissioned by the Emperor. Subjected to numerous brutal “adjustments,” her concept of self was only partially destroyed. Seemingly more aware of what was happening to her, she clung onto what little humanity she had left, desperate to avoid ending up as cold and unfeeling as Nikola. Viewed as defective by Doctor Belgar, she has a deeply ingrained fear of being abandoned for failing her duties, and as a result, she behaves rather impulsively.

It was this behavioral flaw that motivated her to reject Forseti’s order to destroy herself to stop the Federation’s lead tank during the battle of Schwartzgrad. Realizing she had already been abandoned by Doctor Belgar, she opted instead to flee. While hiding she remembered Nikola’s broken demeanor, and despite their shared animosity, made another impulsive decision to save her friend. She was spared execution by Lord Commissar York, who placed her and Nikola in charge of a newly formed Commissariat unit, which they named Kriegstotcher. Her freedom from X-0 allowed her to recover from her “adjustments” faster than Nikola. She even managed to form a tenuous bond with Gunther due to his non-threatening and infectiously friendly nature. Above all, she wishes to mend the strained relationship between her and Nikola, returning it to the state it was when they were growing up together before their “adjustments” drove them apart.

  
  


**Hans Gottfried**

Age: 38

Class: Armored Tech

A veteran soldier who had enlisted in the Imperial Army before the start of the Second European War. Gottfried was part of the initial spear that pushed through Wesel and Assen. He watched as the Empire’s veteran corps slowly ground themselves down, only to be replaced with young demoralized conscripts who were slaughtered en masse for little territorial gains. A traditionalist at heart, he is considered father by many soldiers of Kriegstotcher, and he finds himself better able to cope with what he’s experienced knowing the men of his unit rely on him. During the Battle for Lowerholm, he was killed in Special Agent Irving’s ambush.

  
  


**Fedor Servaas**  
  
Age: 42  
  
Class: Chaplain

Raised in a monastery, Fedor was content to spend his life as a simple monk in the Yggdist church. One day while praying, he had a vision of an ancient valkyur which commanded him to take up his sword in the name of the Empire. As a chaplain in the army, he was primarily concerned with caring for dying men and ensuring they left the world at peace. The battle of Montigny changed him greatly as he watched nearly his whole squad die securing an apartment block. He now often suicidally throws himself into combat with little regard for his own well being, as if actively seeking oblivion. He considers it his personal duty to accompany dying soldiers in their final moments.

  
  


**Sorina**

Age: ??

Class: Sniper

Labeled a witch by the more superstitious members of Kriegstotcher, Sorina is an albino woman who speaks cryptically, as though she knows more about things than she lets on. Regardless of her strange demeanor, she is a first-rate sniper. Despite the grievous burns covering a majority of her body, she never complains. It is unknown when or under what circumstances she joined the Commissariat.

She claims to have made an unknown pact with a black-winged demon. On the battlefield, she displays a surprisingly ruthless attitude towards enemy soldiers.

  
  


**Siegward von Wolfram**

Age: 19

Class: Fencer

An arrogant nobleman who seems out of place in Kriegstotcher. His well-maintained black hair and regal features make him stand out among common soldiers. His bad attitude makes him difficult to work with, as he rarely minxes words and is not afraid to berate his commanding officers. Despite his negative qualities, he has a strategic mind, and understands the morale of a unit is crucial to its success. Those with a deeper knowledge of the noble houses of the Empire would be quick to point out that the name “Wolfram” cannot be found in any records.

Despite being under-handed, he still possesses a code of honor befitting an Imperial knight.

  
  


**Gunther Trofim**

Age: 20

Class: Assault Pioneer

An infectiously optimistic Engineer who hails from the Nord Republic, he is a compulsive gambler whose notorious good luck has gotten him into quite a bit of trouble. His non-threatening disposition has earned him the harassment of Nikola and Chiara while he works, as both girls seem unsure what to make of his positive attitude. Regardless, he is completely unbothered by the childish teasing. In combat he serves as their personal engineer, ensuring they never run out of bolts on the field. However, sometimes his sunny disposition falls away, revealing that he still carries with him trauma from the battle of Seigval.

Being able to assist his commanders in battle has helped him not dwell on the fate that awaits his homeland.

  
  


**Casper Ulf**  
  
Age: 52  
  
Title: Captain

The last descendant of a legendary caste of Northern warriors, Ulf is something of a folk hero in the Nord Republic and a fearsome foe on the battlefield. Before the civil war, he was part of a squad of marines who participated in many battles under the Empire’s banner. Mired in the old ways of his people, he carries an axe named _Björn,_ which is his most prized possession.

  
  


**Otto Halvard**  
  
Age: 50  
  
Title: Major General

While Ulf leads the men in battle, Otto focuses on the logistics of warfare and ensures the loyalist forces remain well supplied. Even before the civil war, he served as Major General in the Imperial Army until he was suddenly relieved of command and transferred to garrison duty in Lowerholm. It was he who brokered a deal with the Commissariat for material aid for an unknown price.

**Vanja** **Olvirsson**  
  
Age: Deceased  
  
Title: N/A  
  
Vanja was one of many nationalistic Nords who saw Imperial Rule as unacceptable. Vanja was an early member of the Blue Rose’s military wing, the Nordic People’s Army, and lead the charge which overran the Garrison stationed in Ksvall. During the battle of Lowerholm, she dueled Siegward, but in the end was killed by Sorina.

**Oliver Ho** **y** **t**  
  
Age: 27  
  
Title: Captain  
  
A volunteer from Edinburgh, Oliver leaped at the opportunity to be free of the Federation’s stuffy military regulations and still be able to fight the Empire. His shocktroopers are known for their do-or-die attitude.

  
  


**Theodore Irving**

Age: 34  
  
Title: Specialist

A member of the Vinnish Secret Service, Irving is considered an unreliable soldier, as his idealism makes him difficult to control. He loathes despotism in all its forms, and firmly believes that tyranny wherever it manifests must be crushed without mercy. His commitment to his ideals has lead him to clash with higher military officials. However, he is starting to harbor doubts towards his country’s own goals.

  
  


**Edward McDonnell**

Age: 72  
  
Title: Professor of the Institute of Ragnite Studies

A brilliant Gallian scientist, Edward was recruited by the United States to continue his research into creating an obedient soldier with abilities beyond the common man. However, his passion lies elsewhere; he is far more invested in the possibility of utilizing the power of ragnite implosion to propel a rocket into the atmosphere. The United States’ military is currently looking into the practical application of such technology. He was personally asked to attend the Vinnish delegation to Schwartzgrad.

**VK-** **0** **(Victoria)**  
  
Age: ??  
  
Title: Operative

On paper, VK-0 was deemed obsolete long before she underwent training. As a result, she is officially the first and last attempt by the United States of Vinland to produce a Valkyrian soldier. She was often shuffled to various offices until being handed off to the Vinnish Secret Service as an operative assisting in the capture of various artifacts. Recently, though, her project was placed under reevaluation. A selective mute, she is not much for conversation.

**Laura** **Ingelheim**  
  
Age: 42  
  
Title: Ambassador  
  
Who will inherit post-war Europe is the dominate question on the mind of Laura. She believes a return to the status quo is unacceptable and aims to ensure the United States of Vinland is in a position to broker a new peace across the continent. To assist this goal, she has been heavily involved in the requisition of Valkyrian artifacts from all across the world.

**Marcus Fink**  
  
Age: 48  
  
Title: Ambassador  
  
An independent wealthy investor in the Federal Electrical Corporation, Marcus has little interest in politics. Instead he prefers to keep his options open when it comes to business, and has enjoyed a professional relationship with the Lord Commissar of Schwartzgrad.

**Herbert Worthy**  
  
Age: 68  
  
Title: Admiral, Ambassador  
  
While the United States was not officially involved in the First Great European War, it did rely heavily on its massive navy to protect its shipping lines. Admiral Worthy’s disdain for the Empire is well documented, and he has requested numerous times that Vinland come to the aid of the Federation.

**Grigori**  
  
Age: Deceased  
  
Title: Comrade-Marshal  
  
An uncompromising advocate for Darcsen Liberation, Grigori was a force of nature. When words failed to free his people from the yoke of Imperial oppression, he was the first to take up the gun to defend his village from hunters aiming to enslave them. Under his guidance, the Darcsen Liberation Movement was founded, its stated intent being to drive off all those occupying the indigenous lands of the Darcsen people and safeguard what little remained of their culture.

Robberies, assassination, bombings and kidnappings would forever mar the insurgency in the eyes of the Empire’s citizens; however, his writings on anti-imperialism continued to attract young Darcsen to his cause. Finally, the great Marshal’s luck ran out. He was captured and executed by Lord Commissar York in the dungeon below the Commissariat’s headquarters. His legacy lives on in the hearts of those who follow his teachings and shows that not all Darcsen are prepared to submit to destruction without a fight.

**Lowe**  
  
Age: 25  
  
Title: N/A  
  
A true firebrand, Lowe has never known life outside of the Darcsen Liberation Movement. Since she was six, her parents taught her how to shoot a rifle and plant bombs. Her education was entirely based on the revolutionary theories of her grandfather, a man she only knew briefly before his murder. Much to her discomfort, many look to her as a logical leader to follow in Grigori’s footsteps and take over the role as Comrade-Marshal.

**Nacht**  
  
Age: 28

Title: N/A

Like Lowe, Nacht was raised inside the DLM’s commune. The two learned to shoot together as children, and have remained close ever since. He’s more reserved and level-headed than his partner, but also more cautious. He takes the preservation of cultural rites seriously and prides himself on maintaining Darcsen language and history.

**Natalia**  
  
Age: 75

Title: N/A  
  
Natalia was one of the very first to march alongside Grigori and would go on to be a pillar within the DLM’s commune. She understands the price of struggle far better than many, having lost both her husband and son to the Crows. These losses affected her deeply; for that reason, despite her age, she continues to fight so all of the Darcsen’s sacrifices will not have been in vain.

\--Bonus art--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Part 3 has officially concluded, the main story of CoS is going on a temporary hiatus. It was inevitable, as so much has changed since I started two years ago and the story has gotten way more expansive than I could have ever predicted. To put it in perspective, when Part 1 began uploading, up to about half of Part 5 was finished.
> 
> However, Part 3 ended up being completely rewritten before being pushed out and too much has changed for it to make sense soldiering on with any of the current drafts. I need time to bring Part 4 in line with changes in characterization and the new overarching narrative. Unfortunately I cannot put an exact time frame on how long this will take, given I want to maintain at least some level of quality. But rest assured, CoS will continue and has an ending firmly in mind in regards to the story. 
> 
> If you’re really interested in more content for these wacky war criminals then hopefully the side content can tide you over, which will still be uploaded during the hiatus. I tend to write side stories when I hit a patch of writer’s block. So there is a quite a back log with a few already finished. No set upload schedule for them though, but three are coming-
> 
> 1\. The final chapter of Monty’s origin.
> 
> 2\. A deleted scene involving Chiara and Gunther that was from Part 2 but actually ended up be crucial to explaining why those two get along at all.
> 
> 3\. The first part of Manfred’s adventure.
> 
> All that said, thanks for reading! It is awesome to know CoS has provided some enjoyment during this stressful year. As always, if you have any pressing questions like what Monty’s favorite tea is, or you just want to let me know I totally misinterpreted something in canon, feel free to comment. The FAQ will be updated in a few weeks with new information.
> 
> All art done by @splatsune on tumblr.


End file.
